What this blog isn't

It's not a Leeds-based exploration of the joys and challenges of shaping the mortar between house-bricks so that the rain runs off without undue damage.
Nor is it about looking at, achieving, or maintaining erections of the male variety. That's what the rest of the internet is for.
It's also not about drawing peoples' attention to the beauty of the Aurora Borealis by indicating it with an extended forefinger
It probably isn't SFW[Safe For Work] either (especially if you work in a church) thanks to the liberal sprinkling of profanities, heresies and blasphemies.

Saturday, July 26, 2008

My trip into high adventure (and dudgeon) - The capture (part 1 of 4)

Allow me to tell you where I have been. Permit me to open your eyes to a world unknown to all but a select few. No, not the world of Max Mosley, where the word 'Nazi' can turn a perfectly respectable sick orgy into a reprehensible activity. Sorry Max, but even if you had been taking part in a bovine-themed sick orgy it is still the last two words which anyone outside the judiciary or the press are bothered about - not the costumes. Although you may have had better luck having moo-sex with whores, as they'd then be less likely to run to the press knowing that red-top headline writers and photo archivists would have a field day (pun partially intended) with them.

No, my unknown but welcome reader(s), this is a tale of a topsy-turvy world outside even the confines of jolly Gestapo uber-romps with loose-tongued prossies. A world hidden from all of us. A world I didn't even have the choice of stumbling across. It found me.

I rarely leave the manse, but on one fateful day last year I ventured out into the village below to see the sights and smell the odours of the world outside my ivory tower. I actually have an ivory tower, but do not think me cruel dear reader - my grandfather (non-ferret) discovered the true Elephant's Graveyard many years ago and brought home enough tusks to keep Harry Connick Jr. in piano keys for a thousand lifetimes. My grandmother fashioned the tower from what was left after Grandpa Magnetite sold off enough of his hoard to keep ten generations of us in the money. Yes, tainted money it was, but at least he was a step up from Prescott Bush.

I was happily window-shopping. I'd seen a beautiful one gracing the facade of the newsagent and had made a mental note to ask Withers to pay for and carry it back home as soon as I returned. Turning to cross the main shopping street I was stopped in my tracks by a white Transit van. It had screeched to a stop beside me, all peeling paintwork and rusted sills. Slightly shocked, I tapped on the passenger-side door to remonstrate with the occupants. A grimy window was haltingly rolled down and I got my first surprise of the day.

No 'white van man' this - the passenger leant out from the cab to reveal one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Taken aback, my complaint stuck in my throat. It didn't stand a chance of being voiced because just then another stunningly attractive face peered out at me. Then another. Driver and both passengers were absolutely gorgeous models.

That's when I lost my sight. I had succumbed to the phenomenon of 'lass-blindness'.

[A side note on lass-blindness, which you are unlikely to have explained - even by that most unlikely explainer - wikipedia.

Lass, or woman, blindness is akin to snow blindness. In much the same way as a small patch of snow in a green pasture will not blind you, one pretty woman alone is similarly harmless. It is the wall-to-wall, field-of-vision total expanses of both of these natural occurrences that does harm. This explains why men wake up next to some dreadful horrors after a night out clubbing. The male optic nerve becomes overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of beauties in sight and fails to register grots, hags and slap-tits at all after a while. Beer goggles do NOT protect the wearer, unlike snow goggles, and some researchers have posited that they may even make matters worse.]

The next I knew, I was being bundled roughly into the back of the white van. I fell atop other male forms as the doors were slammed shut and the engine started. Blind and terrified, I cried out to Withers to save me, but my cries were cut off with a rag, reeking of cleanser and nail varnish remover, stuffed into my mouth. I tried to fight back - but the fumes soon overwhelmed me, and I fell onto the pile of slumbering menfolk with the tinkling laughter of my captors ringing in my ears.

Where I woke up will be revealed in the next part of my tale of dread and wonder, coming to a pair of eyes near you soon.

2 comments:

Pablo Von Stoat said...

Another fine posting, sir!

I look forward to the next episode...

You're right though, 'Anonymous' is a little too..anonymous. Pablo Von Stoat will do for a name methinks...

magnetite said...

Thank you Pablo. I always want to ask anonymous posters in forums if they are the famous anonymous or not. There is usually at least one in the world all the time.