Huxley

That lousy cocksucker who is the product of a simian and human relations thought he could hurry my bathing.

“You can fucking’ blow yourself. Fucking Nutjob!”

My epithet does not deter Gerald. He paces outside the door. If the door were not there the raper of donkeys would venture in to the room. Thank Christ for the door.


“You afford me no favors, Huxley!”

The Christ loving cocksucker is correct that I afford him no favors. His mother fucking majesty can wait his fucking turn, or he can wait several turns past his turn. The cocksucking little Lord fucking Fauntleroy can preserve his bath time for a future time, and a future fucking date.


“Your language is unacceptable, Huxley! Please refrain from blue language during the bathing operation.”

What a wonder it would be to see an ink pen jabbed into his eye. What a wonder it would be to hear him squealing while writhing on the floor, while the ink pen sprayed ink around the room.

“Cock off!”

You lousy rotten cocksucker, born from a simian love, cock off, and a cock upon your house, and many cocks in your eye, and many cocks to you, sir!


“Your language is unacceptable, Huxley! Please refrain from blue language during the bathing operation.”

Gerald was a mind-reading fucker of swine, and a cocksucker of epic proportions, in addition to his mental illness. He caught something that corroded his mind once upon a time.

“You afford me no favors, Huxley!” the rotten codger before his time shouted. His shouts became a greek chorus.

“Thank you, sir,” Gerald said while standing in the hall, “for relinquishing the bathing room.”

“Cock off!”