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how to be a prince of men amongst a kingdom of kooks

There are nuances of behaviour. Almost imperceptible reflexes. Hidden things that are secretly kept, by the Princes, lest the kook learn of them and indulge in their practice. Because only then will he be able to establish his perogative, and join the Princes.

The Glance.

Recently, somebody completed a time study of the surfer amidst his pursuit. Time spent paddling, time surfing and time waiting. 25:10:65. He was probably that peculiar little bodysurfer out there last Sunday, the one with a stopwatch and thick goggles. Nevertheless we thank him for his researched 65, we however calculate it at 75.5.

And Princes don’t waste all that time. They roam the domain; they ease their way from the inside to the wide, then back out to the spot. Stopping here and there to drop a word or two, and all the while this glance to sea.

How quick can an eye range over an eighty-five degree radius of the horizon, to a distance of  between 15 to 20 miles – looking for indicative nuances of blue, or grey. Looking for the lines. Watching them come.

The Prince is tossing off these radar sweeps every eleven seconds, look away from him and you miss it.

And the Prince is always the first to see it. And he knows how the lines number up. Which one will be his. So he roams through everyone again, howdoyedo he smiles. Most don’t even notice him glide past, heading out. Fully co-ordinated. Locked on.

Everyone is anyone who is not as able as the Prince; everyone is the Kingdom of Kooks.

14 Comments Post a comment
  1. Happy Days from Amed on Bali’s northeast coast. Saw the Princes myself down at Airport Reef last week, he sure gets around.

    September 12, 2012
  2. hrdobbs #

    Speaking of sweeps….

    Sweepers. Supper puppies. Have changed the math of all that is surfing.

    Get used to it.

    September 12, 2012
  3. Reminds me of Memorial Day in the late 90’s when I lived in Seattle and any holiday was an excuse for getting loaded. I went with some acquaintances to a haunt in the Capitol Hill area. We set about getting shit faced and hoping to score some poon.

    Well after my fourth or fifth tumbler of Knob Creek I caught sight of a statuesque Vietnamese princess, just barely clad in a short, tight aqua one piece. In my inebriated state, I couldn’t but stare at the perfect ass she framed by equally magnificent legs and taut torso. I glanced up to take in her smooth porcelain face and jet black hair, only to realize she was staring right back. Not in disgust. Like normal. Nor in a worrisome please-don’t-talk-to-me state I was accustomed to, but a deep emotionless, primal stare. I wasn’t going to pass up on this opportunity. I paused to down a swig of Southern courage and then sauntered on over.
    She was sweet, very soft spoken, yet nervous. I don’t remember one iota of our conversation, but it wasn’t long before we were sweating on the dance floor, and then exchanging that sweat with some serious saliva in a dark corner. After one of our tonsils got caught on the other’s she whispered that her flat was nearby. As we headed out the door, my arm around her waist, as I signaled to my friends with a salute and a shit-eating grin that I’ll be finding my own way home. Fuck yea!

    I vaguely recall the walk to her place, and remember even less making our way up the stairs, through the apartment, and into her bedroom. Our faces were stuck together most of that time. All I know is that I was quickly thrown on the bed and having my pants undone by a heavily panting slim Asian beauty. She flipped out my bald butler and began to dispense the most perfect, groan inducing facilitation I’ve ever had in my life.

    This girl was good. REALLY good. Her tongue must have been attached to a ‘universal’ joint, because it oscillated around my meat mallet like its sole purpose in life. I seriously wondered if she was one of fraternal twins and spent all 9 months in the womb honing her skills on her twin brother. I had to make her stop before it was too late. I was just itching to shove my gash mallet in her sideways smile and drop my baby napalm deep in her Da Nang.

    My hand traversed down her heaving cleavage, which I was happily dining ‘ponst at the time, towards her black bearded slit to feel the wet steamy jungle that awaited my guerrilla glue gun. But she grabbed my hand as it started traipsing through her pubic hair and gently guided around to her firm ass cheek. Then with one hand covering her crotch, she turned around and got up on all fours, with the other hand spreading her cheeks wide, offering me her puckered starfish. Okay, I guess that’s cool. Maybe she was really afraid of getting prego. Or has some crazy VD or something. I suppose I could oblige her and pummel that anus, but I was really looking forward to getting all Full Metal Jacket on that poon.

    As I started prepping the patient for surgery, I quickly slid my hand beneath hers to get a finger in the slot… some extra lube for a quick entry, and maybe some convincing while I’m at it.

    That’s when my middle finger jabbed into foreskin.

    Hermaphrodite, she’s gotta be a hermaphrodite. In that instance I was desperately trying to convince myself she, er…it, had both sets of parts, because I could roll with that. Actually, that might be kind of cool. Give a chick a reach-around hand job while my mushroom headed mayonnaise canon is plunging her marine-savory abyss. I flung her hand away and went in with the other to hopefully, no…praying to fucking Läird, I find a tight wet hole. Nope.


    Realizing this wasn’t going any further, we sat there for a moment, staring down at the bed where we were just writhing in exquisite debauchery. Granted, I didn’t know it was a guy at the time, so it can immediately be discounted as a gay blowie. Well…at least on MY end of things, it wasn’t gay.

    But then, I began to wonder, would it be gay to have IT finish the job? I started justifying it with mathematics: Okay, half a blow job = zero gay. So half a blow job x 2 = full blow job, and zero gay times two still equals zero gay, yeah? But before I could come to any later-regretful decision based on ill-gotten drunk / horny math for which I’d blame Archimedes in the morning, she he started crying and scampered off to the bathroom. Uncircumcised penis and balls flopping around under those perfect tits and ass all the way.

    Time to bounce and find my way home.

    The next day my friends asked me how it went with the insanely hot Vietnamese chick I left the bar with. At least THEY couldn’t tell it was a guy. “Too drunk to remember,” I spit out without trying to look too ashamed, and hoped they would never bring it up, ever again.

    That’s what I think about as we remember the brave veterans who laid down their lives for us. Semper Fidelis. Never forget. 9/11. America, Fuck Yeah!

    September 12, 2012
  4. Many will never forget what happened on September 11th 2001.

    For others?

    It’s always all about themselves.

    September 12, 2012
  5. I’ve been to that bar, and the whole thing has all been written up on the dunny wall – engraved even, and with your mobile number underneath. Plus an uncanny likeness.
    He really did fancy you brew.

    September 12, 2012
  6. Here I was, thinking this site was about sur…ah, forget it.

    This piece of sloppy muck by the billious bunny perfectly illustrates why on rare occasions the Second Amendment trumps the First.

    September 12, 2012
  7. joe green #

    what prince? jumble mumble comments and the write.all i can say is the little purple one rips live.

    September 13, 2012
  8. Tee hee

    September 13, 2012
  9. – and cut it out you boofhead, you’ll frighten the horses.

    September 13, 2012
  10. Hippy #

    You can’t tweet that.

    Rad thing is, BreW explained Rollers current condition while leaving burro an out. Talk about empathy in the face of uncomfortable discovery. Unless it’s comfy. All good Rolla.

    September 13, 2012
  11. davo's liver #

    He pretty well covered teeb’s past and future conditions too.

    September 13, 2012
  12. davo's liver #

    Everyone wants to be the prince. They talk about the prince behind his back. They say they’re not jealous. The prince doesn’t care. The prince doesn’t take what doesn’t rightfully belong to him. He doesn’t have to.

    September 13, 2012
  13. The Roller #

    Hippie Mike,


    ah yes. i recall the days. in your case, daze….

    do you still recall the time your shaper had to stepped up and pull an intervention on your arse?…. yea. so, how many decades was that you spent ingesting psychoactive mushrooms and the like?

    speaking of All good … have you yet regained any semblance of “comfy” yet?

    or is there truth the warnings.

    September 14, 2012
  14. sjh #

    how much who from?

    September 15, 2012

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