man, howzit hanging! All of us keglers
down at Ten Alley Lanes get a real
bang from your bitchen critiques of
the world of Opera. Your luminating
commentation always stimulates lively
confab amongst our selves—with
or without a round (or 2!) of Pabst
Blue Ribbon—as we debate the
compairative merits of out standing
vocalists.—The latest debate,
how ever, is winding into quite a
"feud," which we would be
honored if you could help paxify it
by weighing in on one side (or other)
of the controversy:
WHO would you rather fuck—Renata
Tebaldi or Luisa Tetrazzini?
contest, fellas: Luisa.
You heard it correct!
I'll wager you've audio'd the 1911
"Una voce poco fa" (Victor
88301) and may possibly be snickering:
"Cuckoo the Bird Girl—who
would fuck her?"...but that's
from listening mainly with your heads.
You should listen with your schlongs.
Yeah, this chick is all over the place—chirps!
warbles! clucks! caws and quacks!
(watch out for the droppings)—but
in them warbles and what-all lurks
a sexxxxual hysteria waiting only
to be tapped and mined—a whammer-jam
of carnal surges and tangents from
Wham-Ba-Lam Central—vast, voluminous
OCTAVES OF LADYLOVE, sharped, flatted
and WET. That ain't all. 'Cuz for
all the feathered flyaway, there is
also a supreme grounding; a gravitation.
She's a husky spud-bender, see—BIGGG
gams-n-hams at your disposal—bolsters
and buttresses to meat-greet your
libido at its maxmost fortissimo,
and boom it back undiminissimo—pistons
and pinions and heavy-duty whamrods
to piledrive your ramrod and SHAKE
'EM ON DOWN...(o! my empyrean soul).
And with those athaletic lungs of
hers—power pipes in all registers—you
just know she has the oxygen to oxidate
the dynamo and mambo till the moo-cows
Get Luisa up on top and you'll bring
out the very furry best in her. Without
a mattress to restrict her action,
she will throw you some hefty Eros,
some coloratura fuckmoves from MARS:
ascent, descent, ascant and aslant
w/ blockbuster woman-weight behind
it, as chromatic scales from her Torrid
Zone dazzle your dipper in crescendos
of rhythmatic epiphany that will romp
and bomp you to the 49th dimension:
a sexsational, indelible intercourse
you're NOT likely to forget.
And afterwards you can gobble chicken
tetrazzini off her belly.
A date with Renata, by comparison,
would be an arid traipse along the
boardwalk and beaches of DivaGashLiteVille.
Expect no fireworks (or fireflies)
(nor even a fire drill). But oh, you'll
work for it! For the token cookies
you may manage to snab, this vainglorious
puff of fluff will jump you through
hoops, tax your courtship mettle to
the breaking point: flowers by the
gross, tiaras and brooches, milk chocolates
in three-tier boxes, an IMAX film
(& dinner) just to get a toe in
the door...to join Her Royal Cuteness
for a round of "doctor":
You show her yours, she shows you
hers...shoes and socks optional...slip
a little vodka in her 7-Up, and maybe
she'll let you sniff inside her bra...on
the sassiest day of her life—if
her ma don't barge in first—it
is POSSIBLE y'might wangle a three-finger
handjob. (If Ma barges, don't count
on a rain check.)
To get past her garters, and into
her bloomers, you would probably need
a crowbar, and ABOUT THOSE BLOOMERS
I have got a feeling, nay, more than
feeling: a premonition. That they
shall (sayeth me) be boring basic
white, sno-white, cotton-lycra, with
NO stains (in front! below! behind!)
sensible to organs of sight, smell,
taste or touch, and no stray cranny
hairs. (Conditions in the undywear
of Connie Effing Francis could scarcely
be squeaky cleaner.) If there be fragrance
to milady's undies, 'twould be not
(I augur) the sensuous bouquet of
redolent steam from her simmering
squank, but permeant fumes of over-the-counter
"fem hygiene" (i.e.: anti-squank)
Exxxcuse me, guys—I don't mean
to nay-say your grand plans of Tebaldic
debauchery. If afterschool show-N-tell
is your scene, go for it. Who am I
to judge? (Be sure to save some vodka
for yourself...you'll need it.) Should
you make it to 3rd or 4th base (hey:
we all sometimes get lucky), my hat
is off to you. Really, gentlemen,
it isn't my intention to deny it can
be done, though it'd take you a trainload—a
boatload—surely more than a
trouserload!—of time, $$$ and
effort to get all the way to 4th...in
which case you'll have yourself a
trophy—you'll have earned it,
yes—but a trophy of what, precisely?
you say? "Whuttabout Renata's
flawless timbre above high B-flat?"?
Oh mama. If I've said it once, I've
said it humpty-dumpteen times: you
can't fuck timbre! And even if you
could, we're talking timbre here without
fuckmuscle behind it, without fuckfilth
or muffin scent, and fucking THAT
would be like fucking the wall, or
the door of a fridge—or jizzing
off on a Disney 'frigerator magnet.
I may be olde and eccentric, but it
just doesn't DO ANYTHING FOR ME, alright?
A trophy minus muffin scent!...egad.
What would you jizz off about? (Nobody's
got THAT much 'magination.)
Trophyism, bah. In case your mother
didn't tell you, it behooves me to
relate ya's some serious wisdom: you
don't have to pork every prima donna
on the block, and what's more, you
needn't feel GUILTY for not porking!
Not only are trophy fucks in general,
and at best, frequently less than
they're cracked up to be, start collecting
'em and you'll wake up one morning
addicted to a very cweepy habit. In
certain circles, trophyists may in
fact be considered gauche... uncouth...even
immature. For treating women as objecks.
So don't...if you can possibly help
I hope I've answered your question.