Weeb Slinger
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 4, 2019
With the long Autumn of middle age fast approaching over the horizon, and his greasy locks of russet hair growing ever thinner, Russell, with characteristic silent dignity, seems to have acknowledged that he can no longer coast by on his fading good looks and winning personality. If he is to remain an alpha male, then another chapter must be written in the book of Greer.
By willingly allowing the mantle of transport tycoon to be lowered onto his broad, Atlas-like shoulders, he is re-positioning himself in the pages of history books that are yet to be written, as a shirtsleeve industrialist: The spiritual kin to one of the great forefathers of the United States, who matched brain with brawn; whose visionary actions, infused with relentless purpose, realised the manifest destiny of America. These bold patriarchs laid the foundation of an empire where a man could travel to his place of work efficiently and cheaply, and arrive home in time to furtively masturbate in the corner of his bedroom, while his wife was given a thorough one-hundred-thousand mile service by Nick Rekieta's friend, Drexel.
In a wistful act of anti-Stalinism, Russel imagines his likeness superimposed onto sepia images of better men posing nonchalantly with sledgehammers having, only moments before, deflowered virgin Native American territory with a 10-inch railway spike. In these fantasies, it is his features that stare out from the face of Mount Rushmore, a waterfall dribbling sporadically from one corner of his cavernous wide-open mouth.
He longs to align himself with men whose deeds have elevated them into the ranks of mythical beings and gods. In truth, the best possible outcome, resulting from Russell's osmosis into the realm of legend, would cast him in the role of the lame boy who failed to be raped and murdered by The Pied Piper of Hamelin, because he couldn't keep up with the other children. Even a gaily-attired, medieval German paedophile, clad in a pair of curly yellow shoes would regard a young Russell Greer as not worth the wait.
In the Steinbeckian reality that Russell longs to inhabit, he would not be a driving force. He would be the gimpy retard who gets his foot caught in the rails moments before a freight carriage uncouples and rolls back down the line. Later, he would be lynched by the town folk, after drowning the kindly whore, who nursed him back to health, in a tin bath while attempting to force her to go down on him.
I feel that a more appropriate project for Russell than a monorail would be the Escalator to Nowhere, which is mentioned in passing at the conclusion of The Simpsons episode ' "Marge vs. the Monorail".
By willingly allowing the mantle of transport tycoon to be lowered onto his broad, Atlas-like shoulders, he is re-positioning himself in the pages of history books that are yet to be written, as a shirtsleeve industrialist: The spiritual kin to one of the great forefathers of the United States, who matched brain with brawn; whose visionary actions, infused with relentless purpose, realised the manifest destiny of America. These bold patriarchs laid the foundation of an empire where a man could travel to his place of work efficiently and cheaply, and arrive home in time to furtively masturbate in the corner of his bedroom, while his wife was given a thorough one-hundred-thousand mile service by Nick Rekieta's friend, Drexel.
In a wistful act of anti-Stalinism, Russel imagines his likeness superimposed onto sepia images of better men posing nonchalantly with sledgehammers having, only moments before, deflowered virgin Native American territory with a 10-inch railway spike. In these fantasies, it is his features that stare out from the face of Mount Rushmore, a waterfall dribbling sporadically from one corner of his cavernous wide-open mouth.
He longs to align himself with men whose deeds have elevated them into the ranks of mythical beings and gods. In truth, the best possible outcome, resulting from Russell's osmosis into the realm of legend, would cast him in the role of the lame boy who failed to be raped and murdered by The Pied Piper of Hamelin, because he couldn't keep up with the other children. Even a gaily-attired, medieval German paedophile, clad in a pair of curly yellow shoes would regard a young Russell Greer as not worth the wait.
In the Steinbeckian reality that Russell longs to inhabit, he would not be a driving force. He would be the gimpy retard who gets his foot caught in the rails moments before a freight carriage uncouples and rolls back down the line. Later, he would be lynched by the town folk, after drowning the kindly whore, who nursed him back to health, in a tin bath while attempting to force her to go down on him.
I feel that a more appropriate project for Russell than a monorail would be the Escalator to Nowhere, which is mentioned in passing at the conclusion of The Simpsons episode ' "Marge vs. the Monorail".
