“Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. there is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.” Henry Miller
When there were no achievers to be found, you could always rely on Mortenesq.
There in his sober stool, looking like he was displaced as his walk on roll in the Big Lebowski was. In the end it always worked, just like just about anything he said. He was right so often, that those in the know understood there was no you at the end of his name unless you got to put it all together.
Don’t worry, he will give you time to think about it.
His stare was enough to once convince an entire convention of judges vying for the prestige of being a judge at the Westminster Kennel Club that cropped tails were bullshit and would no longer be tolerated in the world’s most prestigious event. There was some dissension in the crowd, but he quickly handled it with copious amounts of factual evidence that gay porn is what had corrupted the Club’s reputation and he was here to scoop it up, and he furiously equated it all to the making of the Jacob Two Two movie.
That is what he did.
Fucked with heads, but it was his that fell that day.
It was an odd chance meeting that is seldom seen in this time in age, when people are too busy focussing on themselves or handing out stars and virtual kudos to all for the great talent. They have to string together some of the most painful things to read, but the wind cries Mary and castles fall into social network sands. The ewe won.
He was cleaning his mirror. Mortenesq was famous for having won a mirror at a fair in the Red Light district of Amsterdam. Having played some black shoe polish air pistol rugby with a clan of window magician muses, the magic abide mensch stopped to clean the smudge prints from the glass. He had some chocolate fudge on the the fingers the last he looked at this prize possession, and he smiled as he always did looking into the time and time again winner of the Man of the Year award.
Achievement had rewards, and he lapped them up.
The elbow patch on the llama wool sweater was best, and so he had to bend a little and the bullion rope chain was long enough to accommodate. He would always tell people laid end to end the chain and his meat rope are longer than a reefer just to see their looks. Regardless, as he turned slightly…there she was.
The most beautiful sidecar in the world.
It was a pageant, and in fact, Lebowski agreed. You could tell, because whenever he did, there was always just a fragment of the story, you know, in the same realm as good ass-kicking sex. The waft just lingering, a scent of something there – is this a story about but sex with a dog named Lebowski? Would be an interesting take on a diversion one would think, but what the fuck? The video is about Character Analysis on social media platforms. Some kind of allusions with parachutes and shit, what the hell – next are we going to hear more about the man on the moon set?
It was a fucking magic sidecar.
It was entirely hand carved, and it was made of the finest rare white bread pine Norway had to offer. It had been lovingly, and somehow perhaps even touched by elves at one point in time, been brought by a sled of unicorns to an artisan’s shop where it could be carved into this.
A giant wooden clog.
There was even a paw sized bell in the shape of a smaller clog, no shit. It had been designed by the eccentric artisan with one goal in mind.
Allow it to meet the man that it was destined for.
Please, do not think the story is any spite directed at women not being worthy or capable of sidecars. Not in the slightest. When interviewing him it was clear, the ones he had built for women were just as keen of an eye as this – but he knew, as Mortenesq had. It had been made for him.
There was a dashboard inlay just underneath the electronics array, and it had to have held the most spectacular crystal configuration seen to date. It all folded out into what was a bowling lane, and the mixer was an ivory ball that had been carved from the bones of criminals that had wasted tax payers money on prison appeals for bullshit causes, just to save their lives. It was perfect, he had contributed a shit tonne of that, much like every fucking Maple Leafs fan that was born after the last cup has tasted the boot and flesh heels on hallowed Yonge street tar, despite now hating the team, they have an earned right on that band wagon.
“Several NASA scientists experimented with some of the Fetaman’s invisible brown acid one day, and we came up with the glasses.”
Bowling fucking pins.
Each one, different like some kind of perfect Ritzenhoff crystal uberstein designed for eating sloppy sandwiches and discovering potato field alleys behind embassies and hued metals.
Grand visions, and to think this one…it held a small hose.
He could not help but smile.
“Yes, it allows an ice cube in the chamber, and the bowl carries no more or less than one 20 second draw. The tongue tip is made of the melted cassette’s used during all the Sony Walkman scenes.”
There was no explanation for what happened next.
It was as if, picnic tables reigned thunderous applause for the ages meeting the ages.
This was not an ordinary golf tournament, no.
This was Master Class.
Monks in white satin.
His robe flowed.
It is not often, if ever one is able to see creatures float in unison. But what happened next, is what Logan’s Run fans dreams are made of.
A regeneration of humanity and art.
The Mortenesq made it clear.
We loved him for it, and even more so today.
That is just the way it is.