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    The Henry Miller Dawn Patrol

    THE HENRY MILLER DAWN PATROL

    By Philip Jose Farmer

    Mrs. Stoss, head night nurse at the Columbia Nursing Manor, looked into the room. Henry Miller added fake snores to the genuine ones of his three roommates. From under a half-closed lid, he could see the face of the Black Eagle behind and to one side of her jowly head. Over her broad shoulder rose a dark hand with curved thumb and forefinger meeting.
    Signal: The Bloody Baroness won’t be flying much tonight.

    After Stoss and the attendant had left, Henry thought about what the Black Eagle had said before bedtime.
    “Listen, Ace. Stoss is out to get your ass in a sling. I don’t know what’s bugging that fat mama, but she’s sure burned about you getting all that dried-up pussy. She don’t want nobody happy nohow. She’s always bitching about this and that. This is you. That is the three husbands died on her.”
    “Whatever she wanted from her men, she didn’t get it. Maybe she don’t know what it was herself. ‘Course, she never mentions fucking. She wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful. Whatever, Ace, I’m on your side. But if she catches you, can’t nobody help you.”

    An hour before dawn, he awoke. Piss call. His joystick was as upright and hard as that in the Spad XIII he’d flown fifty-nine years ago. He clutched it, moved it to the left and right, saw the wings dipping in response.
    He climbed out of bed and stood blinking before the dresser. On it were two framed photographs. One was of his daughter, poor wretch. Its glass was cracked, damaged when he’d flung it across the room after she’d refused to smuggle in booze for him.
    The other photo was of a man standing by a biplane. He was a handsome, twenty-year-old, a lieutenant of the Army Air Service himself. The Spad, The Bitter Pill, bore a hat-in-the-ring, the 94th Squadron insignia, on its fuselage. The glass shimmered in faint light, reflecting his days of glory.
    Then he’d been half man, half Spade, a centaur of the blue. Flesh welded to wood, fabric, and metal. Now—seventy-nine, bald head, one-eyed, face like a shell-torn battlefield, false teeth, skinny body in sagging pajamas.

    But the Lone Eagle was up and ready for another dawn patrol. He limped to the bathroom, favoring the bad knee, and he pissed. His joystick, which was also, economically, his Vickers machine gun, became as limp as a cigarette in a latrine. Never mind. It’d be functioning when he closed in on the Hun.
    After leaving the bathroom, he opened a dresser drawer and removed a leather fur-lined helmet and a pair of flier’s goggles. He put these on and taxied to the hall. No enemy craft were in sight. The stench of shit hung in the air, radiated from several hundred obsolete types. They’d crapped in bed, and now some were awake, shrilling for the attendants to clean them up. Nobody was going to do it, though, until after dawn.
    Most of the obsoletes were asleep, and they’d be indifferent if they went all day with shit down to their toes. Or, if they were awake, they couldn’t move, couldn’t talk.
    Oh, oh! Here came The White Ghost. Around the corner far down the hall a woman in a wheelchair had appeared. She was up early, looking for a victim. If she kept on her heading, she’d run into the Von Richtofen of the nursing home. Stoss would rave at her like a sergeant reaming out a dumb recruit.
    He returned to his hangar to allow The White Ghost to roll on by him. She was ninety-six, but her fuel line wasn’t clogged. A real ace, a sky shark, deadly. If she wasn’t so damned ugly, he would have challenged her long ago.

    Silently, she wheeled on by. She never talked, just cruised all day and night, hoping to catch somebody by surprise. As soon as she passed, he banked left and flew down the hall. Though the pace made his undercarriage hurt, and the Hispano-Suiza in his chest thumped, he got to his objective on schedule.
    The hangar held only two, Harz and Whittaker. Harz was a snoring lump, big as a Zeppelin Staaken bomber. He could take her any time, but it was the sleek tough fighters he was after. Like Whittaker. A widow—weren’t they all?—of unadmitted age but to his keen falcon eye about seventy-four. Except for some of the young nurses, the handsomest craft in the place.
    Her framework was splendid, though covered by wrinkled fabric. Her motor cowlings were still shapely, considering the date on which the factory had shipped her out. He classified her as a Fokker D-VIIF, the best.
    She’d been sociable enough—until the day he’d zoomed by and dropped a note challenging her. From then on, she was as cool and aloof as the Kaiser invited to dinner by the pig farmer. But she had class. She’d not run squealing to The Baroness.
    His motor having quit racing, he glided toward her, then stopped. What the hell! Something was crawling under the sheet over her. A giant cockroach? A water bug? No, it was her hand moving over her cockpit. The sheet was fluttering like fabric ripping from the wing of a Nieuport in a too-long, too-hard dive.
    Grinning, he climbed over the bar at the foot of the bed and raised the sheet.

    Whittaker moaned, her 185-horsepower, six-cylinder, in-line, water-cooled BMW IIIa purring. Her fingers were playing with her cockpit instrumentation. Sacre merde! The hoity-toity Fokker wouldn’t answer his challenge, but she wasn’t above a jack-off dogfight, a furtive combat with herself.
    Under the sheet, in a darkness like the inside of a night cloud, the Lone Eagle glided. Her widespread legs guided him like landing-strip lights. He was ready for sudden action, and air-raid-siren scream, her fists beating at his head like shrapnel from Archie.
    He pushed her hand away, felt no start, heard no protest. He nose-dived, the wind screaming through the wing wires and struts, his motor roaring. Then he was zeroed in, firing quick short bursts, what the hell, his tongue was a Vickers machine gun, too.
    Now, all caution abandoned, he poured a long, slow stream of fire into her cockpit. The Fokker shuddered and moaned under his blasting. Thank God she wasn’t like so many of the Columbia Huns. They weren’t too clean; they smelled like the early World War One rotary-engine planes. Castor oil was used then for lubrication, and the poor bastards that breathed it got diarrhea.
    Her exhaust pipe was clean and her cockpit was sprayed with some Frenchy-smelling perfume. Tasted like bootleg alky. No time for nostalgia now, though.

    Whittaker knew he was present, but she wasn’t saying a word to him. Still waters run deep; aces fly high. She’d incorporated him into her fantasy; to her, he wasn’t real flesh; he was part of her dreamworld. So what? His Vickers was ready. First, though, a few maneuvers. He crawled on up, grabbed her big round cowlings, chewed on the propeller hubs, then eased the gun into the cockpit. She uttered, softly, lovingly, obscenities and profanities she’d probably not heard until she came to the nursing home.
    Now she was tossing him up and down as if he were flying through one air pocket after another, hitting updrafts after each one. Now his Vickers was chattering, eating up the cartridges in the belt, the phosphorus-burning bullets tracing ecstasy across the night sky.
    It was too much for the D-VIIF. She gave a loud cry, and her fuel tank ruptured. Shit squirted all over his Vickers and his undercarriage.

    Cursing, he zoomed out of the cloud cover, sideslipped from the bed and raced toward the doorway. The Staaken was up now, yelling but not knowing what was going on. Without her glasses, she was as blind as a doughboy in a smoke screen.
    The Baroness’ voice rose from somewhere around the corner of the hall. Trapped! No, not The Lone Eagle! He plunged into a hangar tenanted by four pilots long past flight duty. Oh, oh! A visitor! That crazy crone Simmons, the eighty-year old with eczema, was in bed with poor old Osborn. She was on all fours between his skinny legs. She didn’t mind that his feet had been cut off in an accident years ago. All she was interested in was his joystick. She’d taken out her false teeth and put them on the bed behind her.
    The other old vets were snoring away. Simmons raised her face, which looked like a dried-up rubber, and she snarled gummily at him. Osborn was on his back, desperately trying to gain altitude, but he couldn’t get off the runway. A real kiwi. Henry slid under the bed. If The Baroness came in here, she might be so mad at the two above him that she’d forget to check his hangar. If Simmons kept her trap shut…
    Simmons yelled. “You footless old bastard! My Gawd, I’m sick and tired of sucking limp dicks!”
    Henry was so startled he raised his head and banged it against the springs. “Oh, shit!”

    A long silent minute passed. Then the springs began going up and down. Artillery barrage. So Simmons had managed somehow to unjam the old fart’s gun. The Lone Eagle should make a run for it. The Baroness would soon be in Whittaker’s hangar. He crawled out and stood up. The three oldsters were still sleeping, toothless jaws gaping like baby birds begging for worms. Worms were all they’d get.
    Osborn was still on his back. Simmons was standing up, clutching his left thigh with both hands. Sacrebleu! His leg was jammed up to the calf up her cockpit. She was bouncing up and down on it like a toy monkey on a stick, a Sopwith Camel caught in an Archie trap. Osborn was being dragged to the foot of the bed as each bound carried her backward. Simmons was yelping like a hung-up bitch as each downward movement plunged the stump into her.
    He started to take off for Allied territory, then stopped as Simmons screamed. One of her plunges had brought her toes between the false teeth and they’d closed like a wolf trap. As she fell over the end of the bed, he zoomed out laughing. What next?

    The only one in the hall was The White Ghost. Here she came, full throttle, grinning like the skull insignia on the great Nungesser’s Nieuport. She’d wait until he began to pass her, then…wham!
    She tried to turn as he circled her wildly, but her machine didn’t have the terrific right torque of a Camel. He got behind her, pushed as fast as his damaged undercarriage allowed, and then let loose. Around the corner, Stoss bellowed like the motors of a Gotha bomber.

    Just as he reached the other corner, he heard a scream followed by a crash. He couldn’t resist peeking around the corner. The Baroness was on her back. The machine was lying on its side, its pilot sprawled by it. The Black Eagle was laughing too hard to help either of them.
    Henry took off for home base, put his flying gear into the dresser drawer, and crawled into bed. The Fokker’s shit was all over his fuselage, but he’d just have to endure it until things settled down. Anyway, the shit didn’t smell as bad as Stoss’ breath.

    The old Hispano was thumping as if it had sand in its bearings. He couldn’t take too many sorties like this one much longer. One of these days, the motor’d give out and he’d go into the final dive. So what? Was there a better way to die? He wasn’t like the other old pilots, too tired, sick, or senile to care about anything. He was going to stay in the combat zone until the Biggest Ace downed him.
    Not, however, before he knocked The Bloody Baroness flaming out of the skies. He hated her as much as she loathed him…to hell with her. He slid back to September 1918. The Big Push. That month, he’d shot down 4 planes and had busted two Drache observation balloons.
    But October first, as he was firing at a Pfalz D-12, that Kraut fighter had come from nowhere behind him. The Bitter Pill was in rags, its fabric burning, his knee had shattered, and boiling radiator water was scalding his legs. He couldn’t take to the silk because that asshole, A.E.F. Commander “Black Jack” Pershing, had forbidden American fliers to carry parachutes.

    He’d had to ride the out-of-control ship to the ground while he hoped the fuel tank wouldn’t explode. Somehow, he’d managed to sideslip it, putting the fire out, and then he’d leveled out just before he crashed into a small river. The Kraut soldiers who dragged him out thought he was dead. No wonder. His left eye and most of his teeth had been knocked out and he was covered with blood.
    It was all downglide from then on. The rest of his life—a crippled carpenter with an ailing wife and four kids. Still, the old joystick, the trusty Vickers, had functioned splendidly. Though he didn’t have as many cartridges in his belts as when he’d flown in the Big One, he had more than some young punks he knew.
    His daughter said, “But, Dad! You’re getting worse! The day nurse told me you’re losing control of your bowels.”
    “Horsepoppy! One of my roommates crapped on the floor—must have thought he was home—and I slipped on it. I didn’t take a shower right away, because the night nurse gets uptight if she finds me out of bed after taps.”
    She bit her lip, then said, “Mrs. Stoss says you sneak around at night and…uh…bother the old ladies.”
    “Any of them complaining?”
    “No, but she says most of them are too senile to resist. They don’t know what’s going on, and those who do are just as bad…”
    He chuckled. “Say it. Just as bad as me.”
    The other patients being visited—patients, hell; geriatric prisoners of war—sat on sofas or wheelchairs in the big lounge. They were chattering away like a bunch of French whores, or sitting dull-eyed, slack-jawed, drooling, while their relatives tried to get a rise out of them.
    By God, a rise could be gotten out of him. Wouldn’t they be surprised if they knew just what kind and how many?
    “I wish I had let you go to the vets hospital. There aren’t any old women there you could take advantage of.”
    “You’re the one wanted me to come here to Busiris so I wouldn’t be so far away from you. So I see you once a month—if I’m lucky.”
    “And don’t give me that crap about sixty miles is a long way to drive. No, I made the right decision, after all, even if it was mainly for your convenience. The vets’ hospital is out. If you have to choose between two elephant graveyards…”
    “Nurse Stoss says she may have to put you in a room by yourself. Or…Uh…restrain you.”
    “You mean, strap me down in bed? Or stick me in a straightjacket? Bullshit! You forget I broke out of the toughest prison camp the fucking Krauts had, and I was almost a basket case.”
    “Please, Dad, not so loud! And don’t use those filthy words! Listen. It won’t be easy, but we can work it out if you’ll be nice. You could come home…”
    “Are you nuts? Your husband hates me! I’d have to sleep on the living-room sofa! That yapping dog drives me crazy!”
    “Shh! You’re embarrassing me. Miss Stoss says you’re out of control. She thinks—“
    “She thinks! But she’s never SEEN me doing anything! She’s crazier than you think I am!”
    He waved at The Black Eagle, who was wheeling Mr. Zhinsky out of the lounge. The Black Eagle grinned. He knew who’d caused the uproar that morning.”
    “Who’s the colored man?”
    “The spade of the Spads. He flew double patrol last night because one of those drunken Zeps they call attendants couldn’t make it. He often works double shifts to support his family, and put two kids through college. He’s one of those lazy niggers your redneck husband ‘s always talking about. He’s my buddy, flies wing for me.”
    “What’re you talking about?”
    “Just my senile ramblings.”

    She stood up, sniffed, and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “If only you could be like the others.”
    You mean, sit around with my mouth open catching flies and let someone wipe my ass for me? Or sing nonsense songs all day and all night until I’ve driven those who aren’t crazy when they come in out of their minds?”
    “Not me! I’m not giving up! The fucking Kaiser is going to rue the day Wild Hank enlisted. I’m going to keep on racking up my kills.”
    “Kills?”
    “Just a manner of speaking.”
    “Listen, Dad. That nurse says she’s treated you with all the compassion and care in the world, and—“
    “Compassion? Care? That steely-eyed Hun? The scourge of the skies?”
    “Don’t talk so crazy! I can’t stand it!”
    “Maybe we just ought to write to each other. That way, you won’t have to listen to your husband bitching about the cost of the gas you use getting here.”
    He rose and limped away, not looking at her but saying loudly, “Next time you come, bring some whiskey! And leave the bullshit at home!”

    He passed Mrs. Whittaker, who was talking to a visitor. He winked. She turned as red as Von Richtofen’s triplane.
    Blushing!
    So he hadn’t been completely a figure in her dreamworld. She had known that he was real flesh. Also, she hadn’t told Stoss the truth about the commotion that morning. The code of the skies was unbroken. Chivalry wasn’t dead.
    Maybe she was too embarrassed to admit to anyone, even herself, what had happened. Or maybe she thought every woman crapped when she had an orgasm. Maybe her husband had been a kinky shit-eater and she’d believed him when he told her that’s how everybody did it. But could anyone be that rotten?
    What evil lurked in the hearts of men?
    Only God and The Shadow knew.

    All quiet on the Western Front. No impending Armistice, though. The Baroness had changed her schedule and now went up on patrol every half-hour. The Black Eagle had warned that she had the red ass for him, was loaded for bear, and was as mad as a wildcat with a tied-off dong in mating season.
    “The next time she hears a ruckus, she’s heading right for your room. If you’re not in it, she’s got you. That means a lot of extra legwork for her, and that fat-ass don’t like that no way. She hates your guts ‘cause you won’t lie down and die while you’re still living. She isn’t getting any ass, but she don’t want you to, either. A real bitch in a manger.

    Henry stayed in bed, except for piss call, for five nights. The sixth, Stoss went back to her regular schedule. Henry grinned. The Lone Eagle had outwaited the Bloody Baroness.
    The seventh day, he had to get into action. He’d been on furlough too long. His control stick was out of control. His Vickers was throbbing with the pressure of the ammo belts. At 0510, sure the The Baroness was at her HQ, he put on his helmet and goggles.
    “Contact!”
    “Contact!”
    Out of the hangar, down the runway, then soaring into the wild blue yonder, heavy with the fumes of senior-citizen shit.
    Target: Mrs. Hannover. With that name, she had to be a CL IIIa, the beautiful escort fighter that looked like a one-seater from a distance. But when and Allied pilot got on its tail, he found himself staring into the red eye of the observer’s Parabellum machine gun.
    He’d talked to the kid—she was only sixty-five—and he’d found her charming. She did have a functional defect, though. She’d sometimes get a faraway look, as if she were listening to a radio receiver in her head. She quit talking; she didn’t even notice when you left.

    That was why her children had put her in the nursing home. She was an embarrassment, not to mention that she was rich and they were trying to get her declared incompetent.
    At 0513, he came in on a glide path, surveyed the area, found her partner sleeping, and landed in her bed. He was ready to take off, full throttle, if she screamed. Instead, she sighed as if she’d know he was coming, and the dogfight was on.
    Not much of a combat though. CL IIIa’s DID fool you.
    The only thing that bothered him for a while, aside from the lack of aggressiveness, was that she kept crying out, though softly, “Jim! Oh, Jim! My God, Jim!” But if she thought he was some other ace, what the hell? You didn’t have to be properly identified by the enemy before you downed her.
    His long leave had fired him up so that he decided to stay for another tangle. It took only fifteen minutes to reload his Vickers with the Hannover’s help, though she still thought he was that jerk, Jim. But just as he was about to shoot again, he felt a stabbing pain in his exhaust pipe. His scream of anguish mixed with her climactic cry, and he barrel-rolled away and out of the bed. It was a crash landing, but he wasn’t structurally damaged. The only repairs he needed were to the fabric on his tail and the mid-parts of his wings. They were scraped raw, but he was flight-ready.

    The White Ghost was in her machine at the foot of the bed and cackling like The Shadow (a famous World War One ace before he took up crime fighting). The cane she carried concealed under the blanket over her legs, a Hotchkiss cannon if ever he saw one, was thrusting at the Hannover. The White Ghost was trying to goose her, too.
    He swore. He’d forgotten the first rule of aerial combat. Always make sure the Boche isn’t sneaking up on your tail.
    As he rose, he groaned. He was damaged worse than he’d thought. He felt as if a Le Prieur rocket had been shoved up him. Damn The White Ghost!
    “Schweinhund! I’ll rendezvous with you some other time!”
    He sped from the hangar as fast as a seventy-nine-year-old Spad could go. Though he needed a breather, he had no time for it. Get back to base before The Baroness intercepted him. The worst of it was that his Vickers hadn’t used the second load. It was sticking out from his pajamas like a 7.7mm Lewis in the nose of a Handley Page 0/400 bomber. He was proud that it had an independent life. But he wished at that moment that he could control it.

    Puffing, he banked left and shot down the runway and into his hangar. He just had time to take the scene in before his wheels slid out from under him and he ground-looped. A roommate, Tyson, was standing there, his stick hanging out, a puddle of piss on the floor before him. And there was The Bloody Baroness, cursing and on her hands and knees. She must have run in to check on him and slipped on the mess.
    Collision course. He slammed onto her back and her nose went down. Thump! She didn’t get up or even move. She stayed in the same position, her nose on the ground, her wings and undercarriage under her fuselage, her tail up.
    “Aha! Gotcha!”
    Why not? He was done for. There was going to be one hell of a court-martial. He’d be grounded, strapped, jailed, confined, incarcerated. No more dawn patrols. Ever.
    It was the first time he’d used such an unorthodox tactic. But ramming your Vickers up the enemy’s exhaust pipe was a sure way to make a kill, even if the authorities frowned on it. Though it meant he would go down, too, make the final fall from the big blue, he would add the ace of aces to his list.
    He reached under her and seized her huge cowlings—they must way a ton apiece—and began the series of maneuvers, Immelmanns, chandelles, virages, you name it, that would end his victory. The only distraction was from Tyson. His usually leaden eyes brightened, and he sneered.

    “You filthy buggerer!”
    But he walked to his bed and lay down and soon was snoring.
    Just before he emptied all of his 7.65mms, she groaned and showed signs of coming to. Then she began panting and moaning. Maybe she was half unconscious, in a fantasy. Like the Fokker and the Hannover, she was only partly in this, to what was going on. Whatever the case, the Vickers was in her exhaust pipe, and that’s where she wanted it. She’d wanted it all her life but had been too inhibited to bring it up from the unconscious and tell her husbands that’s what she wanted.
    It was this that The Black Eagle, whose daughter was a psychology major, had been hinting at.
    He didn’t care. Psychology-shmychology. Though his Hispano was straining so hard it was about to tear itself loose, he was shooting her down. Let the aftermath be an afterbirth for all he cared, let…

    The Black Eagle came in as Henry Miller, the crazy old ace, the last of the fighter pilots of the Big One to engage the Hun, fell off The Baroness. Henry was dead, no mistaking those glazed eyes and that blue-gray color of skin.
    Mrs. Stoss was on all fours, her big bare ass sticking up, her anus pulsing and dripping. She was muttering something.
    Was it “More! More! Please! Please!”?
    Then she was fully awake, and she was screaming as she heaved herself up, and The Black Eagle was laughing hysterically.
    The Lone Eagle’s smile was broader than his.
    Last edited by Latindancer; 22-05-2017 at 12:50 PM.

  2. #2
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    WTF is this?

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    A funny story....though a bit different from the slapstick you are used to.

    This IS the "Jokes and funny stories" thread ?

    It is by a world-famous author, Philip Jose Farmer, now deceased.



    Awards and honors

    Awards :

    1953: Hugo Award, Most Promising New Talent, The Lovers
    1968: Hugo Award for Best Novella, Riders of the Purple Wage
    1972: Hugo Award for Best Novel, To Your Scattered Bodies Go
    2000: Damon Knight Memorial Grand Master Award, lifetime achievement in fantasy and SF
    2001: World Fantasy Award for Life Achievement
    2003: Forry Award for Lifetime Achievement, presented by the Los Angeles Science Fantasy Society

    Runners-up, etc

    1960: Hugo Award for Best Short Story, "The Alley Man"
    1961: Hugo Award for Best Short Story, "Open to Me, My Sister"
    1966: Hugo Award for Best Short Story, "The Day of the Great Shout"
    1967: Nebula Award for Best Novella, Riders of the Purple Wage
    1972: Locus Award for Best Science Fiction Novel, To Your Scattered Bodies Go
    1974: Nebula Award for Best Short Story, "After King Kong Fell"
    Last edited by Latindancer; 22-05-2017 at 05:37 PM.

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    Bump...

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    A long story and I'm slightly stoned I think I was lost in a maze of sexed up wheelchairs ,

  6. #6
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    Quote Originally Posted by Cujo View Post
    WTF is this?
    What Latindancer calls 'highbrow' literature.

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    I was surprised to find that a "world-famous author" couldn't spell 'weigh'.

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    Why bumpe this unreadable post?
    Last edited by wasabi; 12-06-2017 at 10:54 PM.

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    I'm sure you recently told me that my posts should be amusing?

    You are bumping dull shite that no one thought was funny over 3 weeks ago! Buffoon.

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    Quote Originally Posted by Neverna View Post
    I was surprised to find that a "world-famous author" couldn't spell 'weigh'.
    I copied it from a website on which someone had gone to the trouble of typing out the whole story from the book it appeared in.

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    That explains it. Thanks.

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    Quote Originally Posted by ENT
    What Latindancer calls 'highbrow' literature.
    And what you call naughty soft porn for your generation.
    Did you get any vicarious pleasure?

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    Quote Originally Posted by Maanaam
    And what you call naughty soft porn for your generation.
    Did you get any vicarious pleasure?
    It should be pleasurable seeing cabbage patch doll latindancer make a tit of himself again.

    Instead it is pitiful to watch.

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    Quote Originally Posted by Maanaam View Post
    Quote Originally Posted by ENT
    What Latindancer calls 'highbrow' literature.
    And what you call naughty soft porn for your generation.
    Did you get any vicarious pleasure?
    You're seriously out of touch with reality, manfan.

  15. #15
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    Quote Originally Posted by chassamui View Post
    Quote Originally Posted by Maanaam
    And what you call naughty soft porn for your generation.
    Did you get any vicarious pleasure?
    It should be pleasurable seeing cabbage patch doll latindancer make a tit of himself again.

    Instead it is pitiful to watch.
    He's good at that, talented.

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    He's got me on ignore, but we both know he checked it out. Just has zero response to the sad truth about himself. What a dripping quim he is.

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    Quote Originally Posted by chassamui View Post
    a dripping quim
    One of the best four letter words ever invented. Long live the quim.

  18. #18
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    Remember quimbian corolla.....?

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    It is beyond pitiable to see ENT and Chas making nasty comments about my offering of a humorous short story written by a world-famous author.

    You are revealing the utter poverty of your minds.

    Doesn't affect me, but you have to live with yourselves for the rest of your lives.

    Do you ever read actual books more than once or twice a year ?

    ENT mostly uses spell-check these days, though occasionally he slips up and reveals the level of literacy I had in grade 4.

    The lack of interest in this thread by the general forum also says a lot about them. I assume the story is too long for most peoples' tiny attention spans.
    Last edited by Latindancer; 14-06-2017 at 06:28 AM.

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    I am actually surprised that I summoned up the motivation to comment.

    Do you have any funny stories about ditch water? For comparison like.

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    Quote Originally Posted by Latindancer View Post
    The lack of interest in this thread by the general forum also says a lot about them. I assume the story is too long for most peoples' tiny attention spans.
    I read it but it was a struggle. It wasn't the length that was a problem, it was that it wasn't written well enough to hold my attention while reading it and interest me to want to know what would happen next. The author may be a good writer, but this story doesn't show him as such.
    Nev has style

  22. #22
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    Quote Originally Posted by Latindancer View Post
    It is beyond pitiable to see ENT and Chas making nasty comments about my offering of a humorous short story written by a world-famous author.
    I think your "offering" is a reflection of your rather abject, puerile sense of humour.

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    It's typical of Teakdoor humour, actually.

    Your lack of comprehension is due to it being largely metaphorical, and unable to be appreciated by a creature so strongly affected by Aspergers as you are.

    Not to mention pearls before swine.

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    This thread should be amalgamated with "Pattaya Soap"

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