Doug Bulna was getting a little strange in one of Camden's infamous gay grottos.
If a walrus tonguing a man's asshole doesn't qualify as "strange", then I don't know what does.
I dunno; given the brain-damaged primitive's current decreptitude and unemployment, he's probably getting his kicks out reading
Car and Driver and
Road and Track at his neighborhood convenience store, smudging the ink and pages with his sweaty greasy fingers, making them unsaleable.
But what everybody else was up to last night mystifies me. Because I can't hear, I'm not privy to idle chitcat and casual conversation, during which times people talk about what they've been up to, or plan to do.
But for whatever reason, I had this
impression that last night, Saturday night, was a good night for romps in the sack, and had the image, in my head, of the cbayer primitive and her eccentric English husband rocking their boat off the western coast of Mexico. But given his age and her erosion from drinking, maybe it was just the ocean, and not them, rocking the boat.
I also thought about the magisterial primitive being chained and whipped by his wife, and of the truemud primitive dressed in diapers and a baby-bonnet, and sucking on a plastic rattle to amuse his wife. I'm sure there's other primitives with strong sadistic-masochistic tendencies, but those two are the most obvious.
What was hard to imagine was cousin nadin rolling around in the hay with her husband; it's difficult to imagine how one couples with an oblate spheroid (for those who don't know, that's the opposite of an hourglass shape). I stretched my imagination to the limit, and had to give up.
The Taverner primitive was probably limp and impotent; drugs do that to a male.
Big Bertha and her "wife" were probablly just cuddling. Ew.
Dear old sweet Lu and bewhiskered Bill, he with the mien of a Pennsylvania Dutch farmer, given their ages, probably gave it a try, gave up, and went to sleep early.
Skippy from New York City, who's from San Francisco, was in Chicago late this past week, and only God knows what he was up to there; I don't suppose we want to know because he was in the company of the flaccid dropsical tattooed hypochondrial primitive, mopinko--no doubt she's going to blame her newest disease on him, whatever it is.
Amber was probably doing tricks, half a dozen per hour, and one wonders if she made enough money to get a new lap-top computer to replace the one that was probably stolen.
The locust primitive was probably out being cruel to dogs, while Dennis the Menace was shopping at his neighborhood adult book store looking for something suitable for his homoerotic tastes.
The big guy in Bellevue was probably snoring on the reclining-chair in front of the television, while poor dear Marta was forced to endure his flatulence, fantasizing how nice it'd be, to have the flat-stomached, small-hipped, lean but no overly muscular, franksolich for a spouse instead.
And so on the speculations about what the primitives were doing, went; I'll bet I'm not too far off, if off at all.
