'Even van man tot man. Heeft u Marianne Timmer al eens met andere ogen bekeken? Gisteren zag ik haar op een bankje zitten naast de ijsbaan. Hijgend trachtte zij na gedane inspanning de controle over haar lichaam te herwinnen.
Dat lichaam was geperst in een nauwsluitend, hooggesloten en nietsverhullend schaatspak, dat zij van boven opengetrokken had om zuurstofrijke lucht toe te laten, daarbij een gouden halssieraad tonend dat tezamen met haar blonde haar en haar licht spottende ogen een betoverende uitstraling bewerkstelligde.
Ik voelde een leegte in mijn buik, weemoed, heimwee, maar plots welde er met kracht een vreugde in mij op. Ik was blij dat ik een man was en dat ik naar zo'n vrouw kon kijken.'
Reedsch...43 toevoegingen, reedsch
Om de zondag wat op te fleuren. (ik kon het niet laten) Marianne
Bicat, de zekerheid voor enkele simpele zielen om hun kansloze daagjes nog enig fleur te geven. gelukkig is men bij bicat niet in staat om hun eigen nepgeluk van echt te kunnen onderscheiden en zodoende voelt men zich super. het wordt tijd dat Ome Bicat eens de deur uitstapt en een flink pure hasjpoef zet om vervolgens tot de conclusie te komen war hij nu helemaal mee bezig is.
Ik heb mijn marianne al getroffen. ze heeft donker haar, okee, en is niet zo lang, maar ... mjam.
bromde grts met zonder kattenluikje om 03:10 PM (op 16-05-2004)
*Kiers pakt de microfoon en kijkt de andere juryleden aan*
Heren, hier hebben wij een minderjarige. Wees voorzichtig met hem.
*Evil, het jongetje met het vlasdons op zijn trillende bovenlipje klimt op de sinaasappelkist en kijkt nerveus naar de mannen van bicat.net*
"En dan wilde ik.. eeeuh.. graag nog wat zeggen tegen jullie, namelijk 'kansloze daagjes' en 'flink pure hasjpoef' doordat ik eeuh..., omdat ik eeuh..."
*De jury kijkt elkaar verbaasd aan en barst unaniem in lachen uit*
Nou ja, goed dan. Een cijfer kunnen we hier natuurlijk niet voor geven maar een boek met kleurplaten en wat potloden kan er altijd af. Wat vreselijk he, zo'n taalachterstand. Als dat nog maar goedkomt. Evil, klik op de link en doe je huiswerk.
Johann-Olav Koss, die zag ik dan weer graag. In zijn schaatspak. En het liefst van de achterkant. De kont van Johann-Olav Koss. Zijn dijen waren ook uiterst appetijtelijk.
Dus ik stap met mijn nepvrouw uit mijn nepauto en loop de Europarking uit. Dat zal nog een hele stap worden, naar De Melkweg, want we hebben net enige minuten veelbetekenend naar een kaart van Amsterdam staan kijken en alles leek vrij ver weg.
Welaan. Begonnen met lopen. Lekker weer, allemaal rare winkeltjes. Rare mensen (waarschijnlijk druksgebruikers natuurlijk) en diverse malen dacht ik een bepauld persoon met vlassige baard te herkennen, als hij opkeek uit de vuilnisbak waarin zijn handen voor een moment rustte.
Het was veel bruggetjes en veel straatjes en mevrouw Hoof demonstreerde haar ruimtelijk inzicht door diverse malen te benadrukken dat we links moesten (later zou zij zich hieromtrent de tegenovergestelde richting herinneren) terwijl ik vrij zeker wist dat dat niet bedoeling was. Maar ik ben de rotste niet. Met m'n kop in de zon en het zojuist opgevatte plan om een hotelletje te nemen in plaats van midden in de nacht naar huis terug te rijden. Qua wederzijds plopgehalte en dergelijken.
Plots naderde wij De Dam. Fijn om het nieuwe onderkomen van Woedend! in het echt te kunnen beoordelen. Maar daar kwamen we niet voor, ondanks dat ik nog wel even goede sier maakte met mijn contacten in de hoofdstedelijk hippe sien. Nadering tot De Dam werd ons moeilijk gemaakt omdat er iemand en plein public (vrij letterlijk) van een dak was gesprongen.
Toen vijf kwartier en diverse bier later De Dam weer openging stonden de vermoedelijke veroorzakers van deze stupide roep om aandacht nog gewoon in hun bijeengeraapte indianenkleding op hun fluiten te jengelen. Die jongen moeten ook door natuurlijk.
Op de Kalverstraat kochten wij een tandenborstel, lenzendoosje en deodorant. U leest, het rock-and-roll-gehalte is niet erg extreem.
Het begint een lang verhaal te worden. Het eindigt, bijna, in de ontbijtzaal van Hotel de la Haye, vlak bij De Melkweg. Mevrouw Hoof kijkt verbaasd naar het straatnaambordje. Hé. Hier heet het óók Marnixstraat! Ik nog een beetje lollig 'O, heeft hij een eigen straat? Dan wordt het ook tijd voor een Hoofstraat!' En dat die er in veel steden al was, maar dan niet goed geschreven, maar dat heb je dan, via de telefoon, en andere onnodige doordraafdetails. Nee. Waar het haar om ging, was dat de Europarking ook aan de Marnixstraat stond. Dus dat het er op leek dat we gisteren wellicht toch een beet onnodig een half uur hadden gelopen om in De Melkweg te komen.
Ik veronderstelde nog dat het misschien een hele lange, ronde weg was, die om het hele centrum liep. Buiten bleek de ingang van de Europarking goed te zien. Zelfs zonder lenzen.
Maar. Dat moet gezegd. Héérlijk geneukt. Al zag mevrouw Hoof het verband ook niet direct toen ik het schoorvoetend als tegenwicht poneerde voor mijn ook niet briljante geheugen voor de ligging van de diverse pleinen en dergelijken. In Amsterdam.
bromde Hoof om 05:34 PM (op 16-05-2004)
Zo onmogelijk als yours truly wor je uit de aerd der zaek nooit, Hoof. 10 met 'n griffel!
*grist griffel weer fluks uit Hoofs handen, en zet het op een lopen*
bromde Paul om 06:11 PM (op 16-05-2004)
BENNNNG!
Kun je die Hummer niet elders parkeren?
bromde Paul om 06:13 PM (op 16-05-2004)
My Old Kentucky Home
Turpentine and dandelion wine I've turned the corner and I'm doin' fine Shootin' at the birds on the telephone line Pickin' em off with this gun of mine I got a fire in my belly And a fire in my head Goin' higher and higher Until I'm dead
Sister Sue, she's short and stout She didn't grow up - she grew out Mama says she's plain but she's just bein' kind Papa thinks she's pretty but he's almost blind Don't let her out much 'cept at night But I don't care 'cause I'm all right
Oh, the sun shines bright on My Old Kentucky Home And the young folks roll on the floor Oh, the sun shines bright on My Old Kentucky Home Keep them hard times away from my door
Brother Gene, he's big and mean And he don't have much to say He had a little woman who he whupped each day But now she's gone away He got drunk last night Kicked mama down the stairs But I'm all right so I don't care
Short People got no reason Short People got no reason Short People got no reason To live
They got little hands Little eyes They walk around Tellin' great big lies They got little noses And tiny little teeth They wear platform shoes On their nasty little feet
Well, I don't want no Short People Don't want no Short People Don't want no Short People `Round here
Short People are just the same As you and I (A Fool Such As I) All men are brothers Until the day they die (It's A Wonderful World)
Short People got nobody Short People got nobody Short People got nobody To love
They got little baby legs That stand so low You got to pick 'em up Just to say hello They got little cars That go beep, beep, beep They got little voices Goin' peep, peep, peep They got grubby little fingers And dirty little minds They're gonna get you every time Well, I don't want no Short People Don't want no Short People Don't want no Short People 'Round here
Heee Evilman, little Evilboy wil je met me sparren?
*wasemt ENORME bier, rode wijn, whisky-damp, en ook in die volgorde, voor zich uit*
Ik kan je hebben, ik doe een low kick op je dijbeen, daarna, als je op de grond ligt, een trap tegen de schedelbasis opdat een fractuur niet lang op zich laat wachten, en als je dan helemaal hulpeloos op de grond ligt, kom ik naast je knielen.
Dan kniel ik en zip mijn Levi's 501 open en haal mij ondermaatse pielemans tevoorschijn waarna ik u een half uur lang op het voorhoofd zeik.
Daarna fluister ik in je oor, "heee, zeg es wat, ik lul tegen je".
bromde Kiers om 09:30 PM (op 16-05-2004)
Zeg je dat tegen Mr. Newman?!
bromde Paul om 09:55 PM (op 16-05-2004)
Het is allemaal Koppie & Taste, hoor.
Toch?
bromde Paul om 10:01 PM (op 16-05-2004)
Nee Paul, voor gek versleten genie, dat vertel ik in mijn mijn alcoholroes aan de kleine Evilman die het deze ochtend waagde een chromosoom verkeerd te interpreteren. Maar nu ga ik dus echt slapen en zet ik de 'bicatincomingreageerseldingetjeverklikker' uit. Ik moet even rust hebben.
Even een vruchtvolle tocht over mijn Afrikaanse steppe en dan de ogen toe.
bromde Kiers om 10:14 PM (op 16-05-2004)
Mijn vrouw en ik hebben beide besjloten om ons abbonement op Bicat opte zeggen,wij kunnen ons niet langer verenigen met de doelgroep die hier benadert word!.Zuid-Limburg zal jullie nog wel eens een keertje een poepje laten ruiken,reken daar vast en zeker op !!
bromde Sjeng om 10:34 PM (op 16-05-2004)
Dat reageerloggen is helemaal de bomb in 2004. Hmmmm.... de bomb was in 2003 al uit. Dat internet is zo snel, moet nog moeite gaan doen om de trends bij te houden.
Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful.
But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear.
Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn't understand how she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him, and he wasn't there (Awww...).
The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' Parade was scheduled to appear. He'd just finished mowing and etching the Edelsons lawn for a dollar fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared enough to write.
It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck him. He didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself parcel post, special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized cardboard box just right for a person of his build. He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, perhaps some midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as going tourist.
By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package "Fragile", and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marshas face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off.
Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about it though. After it was over he'd said he still respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn't love her, he did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo - but that seemed many years ago.
Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen door and into the kitchen. "Oh gawd, it's absolutely maudlin outside." "Ach, I know what you mean, I feel all icky!" Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face. "I'm supposed to be taking these salt pills, but," she wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like throwing up." Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd seen on television. "God, don't even talk about that." She got up from the table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than steak," and then attempted to touch her knees. "I don't think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again."
She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the telephone. "Maybe Bill'll call," she said to Sheila's glance. Sheila nibbled on a cuticle. "After last night, I thought maybe you'd be through with him." "I know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place." She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. "The thing is, after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all I didn't really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him. You know what I mean." She started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth. "I'll tell you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," here she bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to!" Now she was laughing very loudly.
It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang the doorbell of the large stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had gotten out of her mother's small beige pocketbook in the den. "What do you think it is?" Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room. "I dunno."
Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the return address and see who it's from?" Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.
Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. "Ah, god, it's from Waldo!" "That schmuck!" said Sheila. Waldo trembled with expectation. "Well, you might as well open it," said Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the staple flap. "Ah sst," said Marsha, groaning, "he must have nailed it shut." They tugged on the flap again. "My God, you need a power drill to get this thing open!" They pulled again. "You can't get a grip." They both stood still, breathing heavily.
"Why don't you get a scissor," said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when she came back up, she had a large sheet metal cutter in her hand. "This is the best I could find." She was very out of breath. "Here, you do it. I-I'm gonna die." She sank into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn't enough room. "God damn this thing!" she said feeling very exasperated. Then smiling, "I got an idea." "What?" said Marsha. "Just watch," said Sheila, touching her finger to her head.
Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat, and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath, and plunged the long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun.
bromde goodie2shoes om 12:16 AM (op 17-05-2004)
hee halloooo. Iedereen al netjes in zijn bedje? Kiers, hou je handen boven de dekens!! *Deelt tikjes met een lineaal uit, maar waar zeg ik lekker niet*
Zo, ligt iedereen goed? Ja Paul, ook jij!!!
Mooi, ik ga chocolademelk maken. Adriana, u ook een kopje?
bromde CiNNeR om 02:15 AM (op 17-05-2004)
*besluipt zijn keyboard. cin & iedereen slaapt, denkt hij, dus:*
Nieuws van het Euroshopper Front! De ES coffee creamer laat je koffie, van welke makelij ook, pikzwart, hoeveel je ook hebt toegevoegd. Nee, 'ES', Even Serieus, het is ongelogen waar.
*breekt liniaal doormidden, en zapsurft verder*
bromde Paul om 04:03 AM (op 17-05-2004)
PRESIDENT'S OBLIGATORY APOLOGY TO WORLD'S UPTIGHT MUSLAMIAC PRUDES STILL OVERREACTING AND WHINING ABOUT A LITTLE HARMLESS FRATERNITY HAZING
Statement by the President
THE PRESIDENT: Good morning. My remarks today are meant as my very firstest ever apology, and are directed to the millions of Middle Easternarians who are all hot and bothered over the steady stream of boner-popping Polaroids coming out of Saddam bin Laden's rape rooms now that they're under FREEDOM® management. You know it's funny, I never would have thought you people would find a little man skin so upsetting. I mean, it's not like we took the black trash bags off the heads of those dogs you call women. Now that would be humiliating! (Laughs.)
So anyway, yeah, the apology. I have to confess, it's times like this when a President has to make tough decisions. On one hand, I have my chief political advisor Karl Rove hissing that apologizing will make me look like a squirrelly little homo to America's all-important red state NASCAR dads. But then on the other hand, I've got my Oreo cookie boy, Colin Powell, insisting that we're headed down the road to World War III with you hell-bound camel-humpers unless I do something to make nice-nice. He says if I keep hocking lugies in your collective Islamian face, that one day soon you people will join forces and whoop America's ass but good – maybe even killing thousands of innocent civilians, or worse, seizing my luxury ranch in Crawford!
STOLEN! TOP-SECRET! ON SALE EVERYWHERE! (book information)
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By Popular Demand:
Well that last part convinced me. Which is why today, I want you people to know that I am so very, very, extra-very sorry that you are such uptight, prudish lunatics, that you can't even handle a few harmless snapshots of your beloved macho men being emotionally castrated by jeering American meatheads. You know, the great fair and balanced commentator Rush Limbaugh recently said that America's treatment of detainees at Abu-Ghraib prison has been no worse than "fraternity hazing." Well he's right on the money folks, and I speak from experience on the matter! Heck, unless any of them Iraqazoids got fisted by a a colored New Haven streetwalker with three-inch sparkle nails, I'd say us DKE boys had it way worse off back in the day! (Laughs.) Anyway, sexual humiliation is a proud American tradition. We've got over 2 million dimebag-hawking cell monkeys on ice right now who can tell you all about it!
But all that said, you people gotta admit some of those pictures are pretty funny. When I saw the one of that little lezbo-lookin' girlie smiling and laughing while she pointed at that sorry sucker whacking his pud right out there in the open, I just about busted a nut! (Laughs.) Or the one where they're sicking the dogs on that hairy gorilla dude? He's so scared, he looks like he's dancing himself some kind of little wikki-wikki-woo there! (Laughs.) And hell, none of you have even seen the really good ones yet! My favorite is the one where our CIA guys are making the Iraqis play soggy biscuit, except instead of a cracker, they're using a folded up page from the Koran! (Laughs.)
Of course, I can't say any of that publicly here at home, which is why my wife Pickles has been telling everyone in the media who'll listen that she "can't bear to look" at those pictures. Big surprise there. That broad's so scared of nekkidness, I can't even get her to watch Skinemax with me, let alone stop showering in the one-piece bathing suit. But I digressify. Back to the apologizationing.
Let me repeat myself: I'm real, real, real sorry. Sorry that those pictures ever got leaked. (Laughs.) It will never happen again – on account of I've ordered that all our disposable enlisted grunts are now totally forbidden to carry their own cameras. (Laughs.)
In closing, I want to make it up to you. That's right, make it up to all the persons living in Arabastan. Because you see, I understand that deep, deep down, you people (just like the Jews and liberals) aren't happy unless you're mad and whining about something. And that is why I have decided to rub your big brown vulture beaks in a steaming pile of humiliation by keeping Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld on the job. Then every day, you can tune in to that Al Jazeebus thing of yours and see him there giving the update on how many of you we've killed that day. And every time he does that little squinty thing with his eyes where it looks almost like he's laughing, you can rest assured that in the back of his mind, he (and I) are indeed laughing. Laughing at YOU!
Naw, just joshing witcha! I'd never laugh at you people – not even if the oil stopped flowing. (Laughter.) Then I'd just kill you. Oh wait, that's what I'm already doing! (Laughs.) Whatever.
So thank you, sorry sorry yadda yadda sorry, and God Bless America!
A pirate walked into a bar, and the bartender said, "Hey, I haven't seen you in a while. What happened? You look terrible!" "What do you mean?" said the pirate. "I feel fine." "What about the wooden leg? You didn't have that before." "Well, we were in a battle, and I got hit with a cannon ball, but I'm fine, now." "Well, ok, but what about that hook? What happened to your hand?" "We were in another battle. I boarded a ship and got into a sword fight. My hand was cut off. I got fitted with a hook. I'm fine, really." "What about that eye patch?" "Oh, one day, we were at sea, and a flock of birds flew over. I looked up, and one of them pooped in my eye." "You're kidding," said the bartender, "you couldn't lose an eye just from some bird poop." "It was my first day with the hook."
bromde De Directie van Luilekkerland om 10:41 AM (op 17-05-2004)
Ooh, die Europarking, dat is heel eenvoudig. Je gaat rechtsaf de Europarking uit en dan zit je al op de Marnixstraat. Dan loop je alleen maar rechtuit, checkt in bij Hotel de la Haye aan de linkerkant en van daaruit kun je De Melkweg zien liggen. Alles bij elkaar nog geen 10 minuten.
Maar goed dat je dat niet hebt gedaan Hoof. Zo had je nooit een spannende dooie op de Dam gezien. Gebeurt daar overigens elke zaterdag. 'Saturday Jumpday' heet dat in de zomer. Speciale toeristentrekker waar wij kansarme allochtonen voor gebruiken.
bromde Kiers om 11:29 AM (op 17-05-2004)
Elke dag een koffie meer, over twee week 23 per dag, raawww. het ideale aantal om piratenhumor voor minderjarigen te krijgen begrijpen en overwinnen. maar genoeg geluld, de actie wacht, cookie of doner op keuren of knallen, ying & yang. gtst of onm to b or not to b, vlegel of braaf, het is een combinatie van ernie, tl-buizen en botsauto's met frans bauermuziek. Volslagen stilleto.
gegroet en avus in horto sedet alhoewel hij dr geen zin in heeft...
bromde koffieleuterwannab om 11:45 AM (op 17-05-2004)
en ja, ik zoek goed, alhoewel ik hem al zo'n verdoemde 3 jaar geleden gevonden heb is hij niet in staat zich aan mij te opnbaren. zoekt niet verder, laat uw skeptici u echter ook niet de mond snoeren, realisme ten top
bromde koffieleuterwannab om 11:48 AM (op 17-05-2004)
*Komt zuchtend bij Likmijnkanaal.com vandaan gesleept* Zijn alle mannen zwijnen of kan ik hier de galante man vinden? *Pakt er snel nog een bak koffie bij*
bromde CiNNeR om 01:04 PM (op 17-05-2004)
* pakt snel een poef *
Hier, ga lekker zitten Cin. Wat zie je er teleurgesteld uit? Kun je me vertellen hoe je je voelt?
