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Travelogue, Czech Republic, September
There was once a bird-whistle merchant meandering the streets of Prague, trying his best to peddle his anachronistic wares. I caught sight of him underneath a particularly orange-colored late afternoon sky. The type of sky you (or I) would like to penetrate with my occidental member, dividing its unknowing compliance (had I been so inclined).
I will romanticize him.
The bird-whistle supposedly replicated the sound of a nightingale's call. You would be impressed with its realism had you been imparted with the sophistication of a 12th century child with little in the way of intelligence, or even street smarts. The peddler treasured these whistles, as I could tell by the way he handled them, so pleasurably, commensurate with my inveterate tendency to unleash my seed through a sarcastic rubbing up-and-down gesture on innocent lamposts and incoherent elders. The peddler's wares, again I emphasize, could have been passed without effort from mouth to unsuspecting mouth, held within but for a moment, fleeting, pleasurable. Palpable.
I then wandered across the street in hopeless search for a souvlaki to satisfy my cravings, for I had just spent weeks in Greece consuming a diet that resulted in the constriction of bowels so powerful as to be beyond belief. And yet so tasty was this meat.
Date Written: September 30, 2004
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