I'm Rich ! (and you're not)
As I lay my weary head against a stack of well-worn King James bibles, after staring at my own visage for several hours whilst soaking 'waterlogged' in a bathtub full of my own excrement mixed with bathtub gin, I begin to ask the eternal question, “Am I Ugly?”
Having watched a sufficient sample of YouTube videos on the topic, I am convinced that I am not in fact ugly. If anything, I am thoroughly convinced that there are indeed many ugly people in the world, and am proud to say that I do not share their lot in life.
The rank and file of people on the internet is by and large besieged by ugliness, a trait I will allow you to define for yourselves. But the bottom line is that most of you reading this are probably ugly, or at least uglier than thou.
And I speak not just of visage, facade or appearance, but of genuine moral character. Be not ashamed, for there are many a statesmen and celebrity and journalist under whose wing you may find nestful comfort. My only humble request is that you lowlifes stay under your protected shell until I summon your peasant beauty and wisdom. Be prepared for a long wait indeed.
To borrow an overused pancake-makeup metaphor from the homosexual community, everyone can be and is – by nature – a bottom. Not everyone can be a top, even with a ten inch dildo. Being a top is, after all, hard work. I should know. I have worked very hard at being a power-bottom, and I absolutely cannot bring myself to taste the pleasures of human excrement, unless heavily diluted with my own concoction of bathtub gin. Recipe forthcoming.
I have invited many a ladyfriend into my baths, if only for the explicit purpose of teaching them how to reject the idea that the attempted concealment of body odours and the embracement of so-called basic sanitation are necessary endeavours. I routinely instruct my concubines to not brush their teeth or body hair, to not shave, to not immolate themselves in flames of Margaux Hemingway's Babe parfum. But these common-folk routinely reject my lectures / overtures and leave without any apparent physical satisfaction, other than having met my godlike acquaintance, which is satisfaction enough.
Granted, I have not cleansed or rinsed the bathtub in many years, confident that the gin and bubblebath keeps it somewhat germ-free. I had the toilet uninstalled years ago, so this is where I “go”, in my own personal Ganges. I do drain the tub every few years.
I have even tried dating fellow Pakistani streetwalkers (even literate ones), but they keep reminding me of Kaavya Viswanathan – it’s as if they have already twice read every book on human urine and fecal consumption and memorized each and every nuanced phrase, sentence, paragraph and publication date.
Forced as I am, I now appeal to every conceivable salacious corner of the human-conquered world to send me audacious invitations from the public - everything from super sexy Robert Palmer lipstick lesbians to latter day clones of Andrea Dworkin as well as Buck-Angel-type-virgins. Please do not be shy, as I do seek more than one holy grail in the fertile crescendo of the cacophony of life. Just so you know, I hate Hydrangeas. Unless you waterboard me. Repeatedly.
Ever So Very Truly Yours, Opal Mehta.
All the Best.
Having watched a sufficient sample of YouTube videos on the topic, I am convinced that I am not in fact ugly. If anything, I am thoroughly convinced that there are indeed many ugly people in the world, and am proud to say that I do not share their lot in life.
The rank and file of people on the internet is by and large besieged by ugliness, a trait I will allow you to define for yourselves. But the bottom line is that most of you reading this are probably ugly, or at least uglier than thou.
And I speak not just of visage, facade or appearance, but of genuine moral character. Be not ashamed, for there are many a statesmen and celebrity and journalist under whose wing you may find nestful comfort. My only humble request is that you lowlifes stay under your protected shell until I summon your peasant beauty and wisdom. Be prepared for a long wait indeed.
To borrow an overused pancake-makeup metaphor from the homosexual community, everyone can be and is – by nature – a bottom. Not everyone can be a top, even with a ten inch dildo. Being a top is, after all, hard work. I should know. I have worked very hard at being a power-bottom, and I absolutely cannot bring myself to taste the pleasures of human excrement, unless heavily diluted with my own concoction of bathtub gin. Recipe forthcoming.
I have invited many a ladyfriend into my baths, if only for the explicit purpose of teaching them how to reject the idea that the attempted concealment of body odours and the embracement of so-called basic sanitation are necessary endeavours. I routinely instruct my concubines to not brush their teeth or body hair, to not shave, to not immolate themselves in flames of Margaux Hemingway's Babe parfum. But these common-folk routinely reject my lectures / overtures and leave without any apparent physical satisfaction, other than having met my godlike acquaintance, which is satisfaction enough.
Granted, I have not cleansed or rinsed the bathtub in many years, confident that the gin and bubblebath keeps it somewhat germ-free. I had the toilet uninstalled years ago, so this is where I “go”, in my own personal Ganges. I do drain the tub every few years.
I have even tried dating fellow Pakistani streetwalkers (even literate ones), but they keep reminding me of Kaavya Viswanathan – it’s as if they have already twice read every book on human urine and fecal consumption and memorized each and every nuanced phrase, sentence, paragraph and publication date.
Forced as I am, I now appeal to every conceivable salacious corner of the human-conquered world to send me audacious invitations from the public - everything from super sexy Robert Palmer lipstick lesbians to latter day clones of Andrea Dworkin as well as Buck-Angel-type-virgins. Please do not be shy, as I do seek more than one holy grail in the fertile crescendo of the cacophony of life. Just so you know, I hate Hydrangeas. Unless you waterboard me. Repeatedly.
Ever So Very Truly Yours, Opal Mehta.
All the Best.
posted by Opal Mehta at 6:00 PM
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