SlapDashittery
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
There are a great many things to consider when dealing with a rabid She-Beast, and proper-footwear is certainly one of them.
It would not do to have one’s feet swept out from under them by a singular swing of this terrifying monster’s clawed-hoof; the reasons for avoiding this, and the damp, acrid breath of the creature that chills even the rosiest of cheeks, should be obvious... no, rubber-soled shoes are a necessity in that awful situation, as is an iron-clad constitution and, perhaps, a background into the psychology of a feral-mind.
Worse, though, is the stare of baseless disdain, the leering sneer of displeasure that pierces the very soul and causes fleeting, impossible visions of snarling teeth seven-feet tall and a disgust so evident that it stands apparent even down at the subatomic-level. Combating this is a harrowing endeavour, best left to those with the tactical-mind of either a Napoleonic beaver-queen or a Machiavellian-bumblebee: it is stratagem-making in its highest, purest form, and it includes direct eye-contact evasion and the loose-limbed dodging of the subsequent cloud of Hate that follows a rankled She-Beast in the same way a thunder-storm haunts the morose.
Comparisons can be made, must be made, if one is to fully comprehend the severity of a She-Beast attack, but unless there is a history of gorilla bare-knuckle-boxing or toe-to-toe kangaroo slap-fighting to fall back on, there is no way to prepare for this sort of horror. Keeping one’s eyes forward is easy; the difficulty lies in eluding that aforementioned cloud of Hate, for that requires superior-quickness on every level, a ballerina’s grace combined with the harsh, unsubtle command of agility only found in the very disciplined or very demented...
Thankfully, like a young cheetah chasing a motorcycle with a full tank of gas, the She-Beast will tire eventually, will give in to the fatigue that quashes even the hardiest, most unfounded fury, that allows the cloud of Hate to dissipate into a gentle fog of derision, that lulls the tired animal into a preemptive slumber of involuntary leg-spasms and cooed-niceties... it is only then, taut as a stretched metal-coil and armed with whatever household-implement that can feasibly double as a shield, that one may tuck the She-Beast into bed without fear of reprisal.
It would not do to have one’s feet swept out from under them by a singular swing of this terrifying monster’s clawed-hoof; the reasons for avoiding this, and the damp, acrid breath of the creature that chills even the rosiest of cheeks, should be obvious... no, rubber-soled shoes are a necessity in that awful situation, as is an iron-clad constitution and, perhaps, a background into the psychology of a feral-mind.
Worse, though, is the stare of baseless disdain, the leering sneer of displeasure that pierces the very soul and causes fleeting, impossible visions of snarling teeth seven-feet tall and a disgust so evident that it stands apparent even down at the subatomic-level. Combating this is a harrowing endeavour, best left to those with the tactical-mind of either a Napoleonic beaver-queen or a Machiavellian-bumblebee: it is stratagem-making in its highest, purest form, and it includes direct eye-contact evasion and the loose-limbed dodging of the subsequent cloud of Hate that follows a rankled She-Beast in the same way a thunder-storm haunts the morose.
Comparisons can be made, must be made, if one is to fully comprehend the severity of a She-Beast attack, but unless there is a history of gorilla bare-knuckle-boxing or toe-to-toe kangaroo slap-fighting to fall back on, there is no way to prepare for this sort of horror. Keeping one’s eyes forward is easy; the difficulty lies in eluding that aforementioned cloud of Hate, for that requires superior-quickness on every level, a ballerina’s grace combined with the harsh, unsubtle command of agility only found in the very disciplined or very demented...
Thankfully, like a young cheetah chasing a motorcycle with a full tank of gas, the She-Beast will tire eventually, will give in to the fatigue that quashes even the hardiest, most unfounded fury, that allows the cloud of Hate to dissipate into a gentle fog of derision, that lulls the tired animal into a preemptive slumber of involuntary leg-spasms and cooed-niceties... it is only then, taut as a stretched metal-coil and armed with whatever household-implement that can feasibly double as a shield, that one may tuck the She-Beast into bed without fear of reprisal.
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12 Comments:
Wait. Am I the She-Beast? Why does this all sound familiar?
[sucking air through teeth]
I hope not, Gypsy...
Your girlfriend really likes you, doesn't she?
I absolutely hate to admit this, but that sounds quite a bit like how I'm feeling today.
I knew there was some sort of universal-truth to that She-Beast-thing...
Also, Chris, my girlfriend understands that, despite her complete and total non-presence on the interweb save my descriptions, EVERYONE, somehow, sides with her...
I won't be siding with her. My she-beast experience extends beyond mere practice. I could write a book on it, and it would be titled "Dealing With The She-Beast For (combo) Dummies".
You just described my 3-yr-old-whose-fake-name-I-can't-remember-just-now to a tee.
Spooky.
If you took a curly-wurly bar, melted it down, and let it cool over numerous occurrences of every letter of the alphabet, this is what would result.
Xbox, that went right over my head. Granted, that's not hard to do. I'm short. But still, dude, you guys don't always have to flex your creative muscles. We like you dumb and goodlooking sometimes, too.
Sully: Even if, going in, you wouldn't even dream of siding with her, she, again somehow, wins you over...it's quite strange, really.
Maggie: Apologies.
Xbox: That is, perhaps, the single greatest comment ever left anywhere.
Angel: Being dumb, aside from its many blissful-qualities, is totally overrated.
Angel, as a visual aid
clicky here
I had absolutely no idea what a curly-wurly bar is! I'd never seen one before.
I feel so much better now.
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