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New York, 9:00 PM
Mon Dec 14
18 posts in the last 24 hours
This review is where Robert Weintraub's "Purple Prose" meets the ONION's Smoove B, Love Man. (Get with it, people. Full name & title, please.) This is poetry. Reading these lines -- "When he's sufficiently stressed their elasticity, eliciting a high chorus of throaty orgasmic song that effervesces up from the depths of their clinging, swollen pink centers like an angelic aria in the process, he then proceeds to reward the degree of their sexual surrender by basting them in goopy servings of piping hot baby batter. From the looks on their exhausted and extremely satisfied faces, it seems they really appreciate his thoughtfulness" -- I seize up, tears collecting in the corners of my eyes. I sniffle, wince, then let my feelings pour forth.
02/16/09