Portrait of Christopher Walken as a Young Man

Yet another adventure in Random Flickr Blogging. This week’s random number: 0382. Image shamelessly copped from Chapster.

For those of you who consider this post a little odd, I spent the last fifteen minutes of my life washing the dishes and singing (in baby talk) Romeo Void’s Never Say Never to my Tabby, Faithful.

I might like you better
If we slept together
But there’s somethin
In your eyes that says
Maybe that’s never
Never say never

There. That should put everything else into perspective.

Portrait of Christopher Walken as a Young Man

— Barbara:

— Barbara:

— They’re coming to get you, Barbara.

— Aw c’mon, Barbara, let me in. I had the barrel to my head, doll face, my head. I wasn’t pointing it at anyone. The gun wasn’t even loaded, and besides, I was only trying to impress your old man. True, it wasn’t particularly impressive when daddy-o ripped the gun from my hands and bludgeoned me on the back of the head. It hurts, Barbara. It really hurts. Here’s how much it hurts:

— To make up for your father’s needless brutality, I’d say I deserve a firm, rousing, hickey-force b.j. —

When Barbara’s father ran out onto the patio with an aluminum baseball bat, Christopher was neither impressed nor endeared, but simply wished the harassment to end. He barely recognized what had appeared at first a trifling indiscretion for he knew that the moment of intimacy crystallizing in his mind could not be endangered by mere aluminum or acid words: and his impassive features negated the old man’s arch smile.

— Really. Mr. Peterson. Stop. Stop. B.J., it’s nothing more than a, than a colloquialism, or possibly the latest Pentagon acronym denoting only the most professional interactions between a commissioned officer and his — please, Mr. Peterson, we can scarcely have a civilized conversation if you break my jaw. I merely suggested that Barbara help me get some exercise lest my pubococcygeus muscle atrophy from desuetude.

— Please, Mr. — ow! Desuetude is not a verb, Mr. Peterson, so your intention to ‘desuetude me’ makes scant grammatical or syntactical — ow!

How foolish his schemes had been! Christopher’s vaulted intentions of eager merrymaking dripped through his fingers as gobbets of blood and hair and tears: a dark orgiastic riot turned base and tawdry. Through a red haze he saw the object of his affections approach: and what had seemed moments earlier a visage of lustful eagerness now lay transfigured by a vengeful thirst, the eyes sparkling with crazed malice.

— Bust his nose, Dad! Barbara said. I always hated his nose.

— Please. Cupcake. Not the face.

— Not the face? Barbara said eagerly. Knee-cap him, Dad!

— You got this coming to you, Walken.

— I, sir? Why, sir?

***

Feh, enough of that. Walnut channeling Walken channeling Stephen Dedalus — I think Balls and Walnuts has reached a new height in High Concept.

Apologies to James Joyce. Then again, I had to read the bastard in high school. Apologies rescinded.

D.