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Date Posted: 15:30:25 11/21/00 Tue
Author: Salieri
Subject: Re: Da schau! Tap-dancing buttocks.
In reply to: Salieri 's message, "Da schau! Tap-dancing buttocks." on 15:23:41 11/21/00 Tue

As if we hadn’t known all along that Alie is our premium killer-macho. Just take the car wrecks, not to mention the others. It’s plain old common knowledge, isn’t it? I mean not a single creepy bedbug has ever survived more than a day in her bulletproof notebook. Even the cleverest virus, if at all it manages to sneak in, is regularly seen to limp away after a few hours, utterly shaken and humiliated, knees trembling. Yes, it takes far stronger creatures to endure those ever-crashing windows. Some super-macho, to name an arbitrary example. Someone like Alie.

But me? Me a macho? Heheheee, Sal, you wish! Amazon.com just told me, even though I had the complete Bruce Lee collection among my DVD order. I mean what else could you possibly do? But alas, it didn’t help. Amazon’s recommendations for their valued customer, that is me in case you wondered, consisted basically of the whole Johan Paulik soft-BelAmi-bunch. I guess “Total eclipse” gave it away. This is what you get when you follow directions given by a duck, duh!

Lady Kris, now please be clear for once: was it that you didn’t hear the snowflakes? Or were you unable to see the sound that went along with IS-Peter’s Christmas card? See, he is only 19, which makes him rather sensitive to Zeitgeist’s sometimes-unfortunate color schemes, - at least that’s my guess for the reason behind his decision to present the snowflakes in white. Also, be careful with talcum. A friend just told me how his son, approximately of Siah’s age, discovered a talcum container in their garage. He promptly used it to make snow in his bedroom. I can’t help but smile when I imagine the little angel go around and release a magical slow-settling cloud here and another one there... His father, unfortunately, is allergic to the smell of tire shops.

Wolfie, I’m heading your way in a few weeks. Yaayyy! Wish me luck that my baby-sister’s Trabant will survive another trip to the airport. For the more ignorant: a Trabant is an East-German cardboard-based car-like transportation device designed for those among the short and hearing-impaired who are able to hold their breaths over extended times. Yeah, well, I guess we all have a little defect in our family, having lived too long under socialistic repression. We just don’t seem to be able to get rich. There you have my beloved and almost famous baby-sister, I mean she’s been giving me all these magazines this year, odd stuff that often make my guests wonder (Marie Claire (?), Shape, Tagesspiegel and whatnot) until I show them the pictures and interviews, - and yet she’s still driving her friggin Trabant. Sisters are so fun!

So what does one do with somebody like “searcher”? (He very much reminds me of Robbie.) Is there something like joy in depression? Friends have sometimes told me that I seem to be enjoying pain, - or why else would I choose to do everything the hard(est) way? And yes, well, isn’t breathtaking great-blue sadness better than nothing, in any case better than black, cold emptiness?

So I bought those flannel sheets because I needed some anyway. They also looked fuzzy and cozy and pleasantly colored in a regular ocean grid intermingled with sky. Plus, they went well with the bath towel that I was getting on the side. The towel turned out to be the most water-repellent thing in my whole place. The sheets stunk when I opened the bag. So what, - you gotta wash them anyway, right? Hoping the towel would profit from it as well, I threw everything in the washer. The dryer almost choked on all the fuzz that came off the flannel. But the worst thing was the towel. At the next best occasion it promptly turned freshly-showered Ol’ Sal into something entirely extraterrestrial, covered from head to toe in bluish fluff. I’m still struggling to recover…

Fuzzy hugs everybody,
Salieri

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