svenska, tack

Goddamn! Yet another bad hair day! There's just one cure - a heavy eyeliner makes any freakin' hairdo work.
      With the hair contacting Mars and a convincing hunch of a seriously wicked day I'm off. Takin' the dog for a walk. The sun is disgustingly bright, the sky fawningly blue and the posh people are executing their weekend strolls. The mutt shovels the crushed ice aside and rewards herself with a springtime plunge. Several plunges I might add. Then all of a sudden, like a bat outta hell, there they are! Over there goddamn'it! On the wooden seat, him and her. Ohh, yes. Two grave losers roaming this life thinking they've got something special goin' And whaddaya know, the damned fool is trying to show off playing an achingly melancholic "Lonesome Cowboy Blues" on a mouth-organ. Beside him, the bird, wet 'n' willing, smiling like a hyena. The wind catches his hair and he senses that at this very moment he is just such a hunk, soooOo irresistibly charming. He sets off to the land of blues… But god damn enough is enough, Jackass! Fuckin' freak-show! I say show me what you've got down there instead of sittin' there like a big looser trying to hide your small dick in a cloud of blues. Flasher-bred as I am, I've got a wide frame of reference. I'll give you a fair trial dopehead. Just get rid of that troubadour hooker of yours before she'll give you chlamydia. And tell her to take that pussy-candy bloody organ with her. Ukk!
      Hopeless people, all these hopeless people who constantly bead my days with a golden rim of malignant satisfaction. Feel so good, so good when I smell scorn 'n contempt.

TO THE KIDS' delight my canine friend always carry the lead in her mouth, as if she was out and about on her own. The little plastic device is held in a firm grip in her mouth whilst a short loop of lead, attached to the collar, is swinging back and forth below her throat. She sort of feels safe when she has things under control. Out for a nice walk, she's the boss. A solo stroll. I know the feeling… It's what I usually prefer as well. Sisters are doing it for themselves! Doin' it for myself instead of letting anyone else in. That way you don't end up disappointed and unsatisfied. The fact is that the memories of men and their performances have failed to leave any deeper tracks on memory lane, on the other hand I clearly remember all my gear. It's crystal alright! A mortal (well yes, not the bowl, the other part), a couple of deodorants (warning required - the joint between the lid and the bottle can be quite pinching), cucumbers (just remove them from the fridge and let them warm up before usage), carrots (the same goes for them), candles (wash 'em, dry 'em and they're ready for recycling), a piece of peppermint rock candy (don't try this at home folks - it is almost as sticky and smeary as the real thing) and of course my fingers. Aaah, sweet memories.
      Men, they come and go, or rather are picked up and dropped down. Why on earth would any sane woman want them full-time? That is like such BS! Besides, men ain't even remotely the men they, and us women, think and wish they were. Most of them even need a bloody uniform to avoid impotence when a penetrating juncture comes into question. So, they take a crash course at some underdog security firm and there you go - it's in the bag! Having lived in condemned solitude all his life, it takes the hormone bulging fraction of a man three weeks to become a real man. Mister Manly himself. His new philosophy: everything goes if u just use enough violence and vaseline. Imagine! The Clint Eastwood Dream and the Clitoris Dream are fulfilled in one go! Talk about killing two birds with one stone! Eager-fuckin-beaver! Three weeks and he is even allowed to use violence to get his own way. It is his way or the highway! The taste of blood blends marvellously with the sensation of yesterday's woman. He is invincible! Conveying the nightstick in one hand and the hard prick in the other he patrols subways and streets. Always ready for seduction and destruction. It is a fine line!

THE TRUTH IS that men are responsible for all the violence that cripples the world. They drink and they fight. They run over our kids, rape our sisters, desecrate our mothers and violate every right us women ever had. To really give the cake some tasty icing they declare war against their neighbours! The fact that young men, with the drivers licence hot off the press, think they are the greatest drivers is just as absurd as a security guard that thinks he is a great lover! Cars may be big and hard and batons may be long and erect but since when does that indicate that the owner possess a cock of the same calibre? In the absence of self-esteem the species of losers pay profuse tribute to their hollow gadgets. It makes me sick!
      However, I love men, it is just a matter of definitions. A man's criteria is that he makes $300.000 a year, has a car for a third of that amount, is generous and have an outstanding stamina. If he's got a wife - even better! I'm certainly nobody's wife, not today, nor bloody ever. I'm a straight up horny femme-fucking-fatal. I search and I find my man for the day, for the hour, for my goddamn passionate moment. Instant and honest. And when I am lost in lust, when my body shivers and my nipples harden, at this time two things need to be established beyond any shadow of doubt. Firstly the fact that his cock is fat and hard, secondly that he never ever sits down by the water imitating the bloody blues brothers.
      May the hardest man win! Love, Leona.

illustration: DANIEL EGNEUS

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This is Maria Leona kicking male ass backwards, forwards and sideways.
© Copyright 1998 Asshole Magazine

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