A Writer’s Jealousy

The whole room sat, suspended like cheese marionettes, in anticipation of his opening sentence. It had to be marvellous, for he was marvellous – a sexual conquistador in an amphitheatre of sallow pussy. With a triple-twitch of his marvellous eyebrows, he tantalised the room, sending the professors into giddy bubbles of delight, and at last – oh, at long last! – he began.

“The moon is big ball of rock,” he said.

The room erupted. It was as though Christ had delivered a freeform scat solo to his disciples in an extemporised fireball. Several spotty wannabe Bukowskis slit their wrists on the table while the busty wannabe Plaths drank up their blood in ravenous slurps. A tribal dance began towards the filing cabinet – a primeval nude stomp to the impenetrably suave and perfectly magnificent rhythms of their marvellous deity.

The professor, drunk to the death-tits on absinthe, slurred his last few words to the genius.

“Wh-ee-ere d-d-d-do you g-g-get your ideas from?”

“Oh, wherever. I’m so unbelievably charismatic and charming that genius orbits around me 24/7.”

Beneath the table, four women were scrabbling for oral ownership of his bronze cock, while the toadies dusted the dust from his jacket, licked the coffee reams from his mouth and drank in the frighteningly potent aroma of his genius. His sentence was picked up and subsequently awarded the Thing Prize For Words In A Good Order Thing and everything else in the world pertaining to literature and marvellous, beautiful writing men.

Oh, what a man!