Never expected, always welcome, Virus wanders amongst us like a spectral presence who leaves crumbs in the bed so you know he’s around.

With any luck, the 30 quid we raised was enough to entice Julianne Moore to serenade him this evening wearing only her pumps and a sly grin.

As a tribute to this lovely and supremely talented man, I present this lovely and supremely talented man:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=mgXYkF1795o

(Embedding for this video is disabled, so click here instead.)

All day I have been dusting the knick-knacks and polishing the wood.  I shook the rugs mid-m0rning and baked a nice sheet cake that I frosted with flourish.  I’ve finished my toilette and must admit, I am shining like a copper penny newly minted. 

Mr. Shoes will arrive for refreshments at 9 o’clock this evening.  I’ve pulled on – carefully, carefully – my most lovely stockings.  My petticoats are freshly washed and bleached and as fragrant as a field of wildflowers at dusk on a late spring day.  I’m wearing my best dress – the navy fitted one with the sweet peter pan collar and starched white cuffs.  My hair is down this evening, coaxed by a hot iron into loose, gentle curls.

I’ve trimmed the crusts from our sandwiches and a hot pot of Lady Grey is steaming on the sideboard.  Oh, won’t Mr. Shoes be thrilled!  It’s nearing 9 o’clock when I hear the rap-rap-rap of his  knuckles on my front door.  I hasten to great him but stop by the mirror in the hall for one last check.  Oh, good show, old girl.  You’ll have that job back or bob’s your uncle.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, VIRUS!  ♥

Oh hell, I can’t do these lines justice. Why not let the master himself do the honors?

Take it way, Robbie!

We’re in the middle of a heat wave, but my studio apartment is nice and cool in the morning after running the fan all night, and the comforter isn’t too heavy  when you sleep naked. I check the clock then snuggle deeper into the pillows, my bed linens freshly laundered and smelling faintly of the lavender sachets I toss in the dryer.

I close my eyes again and sigh, rubbing my ankle over tops of your feet. I settle my ass against your pelvis, smiling as your hand drifts up my thigh, dips over my waist and comes to rest on my left breast. Your breath is warm on my neck, and your lips, even warmer, trailing up to the sweet spot just below my ear at the same moment your fingers close around my nipple, a dreamy frisson spreading throughout my body.

Your cock is stiffening against me; I shift my hips and feel more than hear your soft, sharp gasp, as you get even harder. I drape my leg over yours, savoring the sensation of my pussy opening with an almost inaudible click and then your cock is pressing against me, slipping over my wet lips up to my clit and back down, teasing me until I reach back and run my fingernails down your thigh, urging you on.

Then you’re sliding into me: gently biting my neck as I groan into the pillow, kneading my tits as you build a lazy rhythm, fucking me with exquisite, acute strokes until my pussy begins to contract around your marvelous cock, our orgasm culminating in a quiet paroxysm of bliss.

I raise your hand to my lips and kiss your fingers as I drift back to sleep, our bodies still pressed together until my alarm intrudes—

I grope around the nightstand until I find the snooze button, then collapse back onto the bed. Once again I bask in the afterglow of my favorite recurring dream, dismissing the lingering scent of hashish smoke on my skin as the product of an overactive imagination.

The few strands of cat hair on my sheets, however, are not so easily explained.

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The following is attributed to that bawbag and alleged Scotsman Dennis Miller, who kens hee haw aboot hee haw:

“The biggest conspiracy has always been the fact that there is no conspiracy. Nobody’s out to get you.   Nobody gives a shit whether you live or die.  There, you feel better now?”

Bishop of Motherwell Joseph Devine started a barnie during a 2008 lecture in Glasgow by saying that the bufties have launched a “huge and well-orchestrated conspiracy against Christian values,” and that they’ve aligned themselves with minority groups and holocaust survivors in a desperate bid for sympathy. Not taking any fucking shite from those poofs.  In response to a question about what to do when confronted with a child’s “mission to become homosexual,” the bishop said not on yir nellie, advising parents not to “tolerate that behaviour.”

On March 13, 1996, this zoomer Thomas Hamilton took a pure maddy at the Dunblane Primary School. Armed to the teeth, he shot and killed 16 children and 1 teacher and injured many others before shooting himself. Suspicions regarding Hamilton’s activities with boys had been raised for years.  The police considered revoking his firearms license, but never did.  Many documents relating to the investigation – the Cullen Inquiry – were ordered sealed for 100 years, fueling suspicion that people high up in the Scottish government had something to hide, or that a coverup was being carried out on behalf of the Freemasons.   (The seal was lifted in 2005.)  NATO Secretary General Lord Robertson sued the Sunday Herald newspaper for reporting that he had used his influence with the Central Scotland Police to help Hamilton obtain his gun license, and then participated in a cover-up afterwards.  He won an apology and damages.  Tony Blair was accused of being part of a “clandestine pedophile ring” set up by Robertson to service “the British elite.”  Allegedly, many Labour MPs were known to be involved in child porn, and the CIA used this information to blackmail Blair into supporting the U.S. invasion of Iraq.   As the case led to more restrictive gun laws being passed, some believe that Hamilton was groomed for the massacre by shadowy groups such as the “Zionist Gun Control Lobby.” Sort of a Manchurian Cunt, you might say.

Speaking of freemasons, “Astronaut Brother” Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin was a Scottish Rite Mason. On September 16, 1969, Aldrin presented a Scottish Rite flag he had taken to the moon to “Grand Commander” Smith, the leader of the Masonic temple in Washington. D.C. Those space capsules were pretty small. Shouldn’t that space have been used for Tang or something? And where in fuck did he hide a sheep?

Scottish justice secretary Kenny MacAskill ignited a firestorm by releasing Abdel Basset Ali al-Megrahi, the sole person convicted in the 1988 Pan Am Flight 103 bombing over Lockerbie, Scotland that killed 270 people.  British Prime Minister Gordon Brown is also facing questions as to his role in the release, since he appears to have discussed the matter directly with Libyan leader Col. Muammar Qaddafi at the recent G8 summit in Italy.  Conspiracy theories about Lockerbie have raged for years.  It would be impossible to cover them all, but here’s a few:  The Iranians did it to avenge the accidental downing of one of their airliners by the U.S.S. Vincennes earlier that year.  Iran funded Palestinians or Syrians to avenge the downing of said plane.  The Libyans did it to avenge the 1986 U.S. bombings of Tripoli that killed Qaddafi’s adopted daughter, Hanna.  Or maybe the bombing stemmed from a CIA operation that allowed Syrians to traffic heroin in return for information on the locations of U.S. hostages.  The CIA allegedly prevented suitcases containing drugs from being screened by airport security.  Oops.  Bad idea.

Some Scots believe that the case against al-Megrahi’s was done up like the dog’s dinner.  Total keech.  This was ably described on this very site.  Concerns have been raised for years over the Scottish police’s handling of the investigation, including the possibly tainted identification of al-Megrahi by a key witness.  Sensitivities surrounding the Lockerbie investigation may have led to a cover-up of a major error committed by the Scottish Criminal Records Office that falsely implicated a female Detective Constable in another case.   But recent signs point to greed, not remorse over a possibly flawed conviction, as the reason for al- Megrahi’s release.  Some ba’ heid name of Lord Trefgarne who crys himself chairman of the “Libyan British Business Council” said that al-Megrahi’s release would pave the way for British oil companies to “pursue multibillion-dollar oil contracts with Libya.”  Fuck sake man. Qaddafi’s son Saif al Islam el-Qaddafi embarrassed British officials by flatly stating that Megrahi’s release was part of a business deal.  There is evidence that the sniveling Brits connived the Scots into doing their dirty work;  the U.S. has certainly focused its ire at Scotland.

More than 125,000 photos and videos were seized when the largest Scottish pedophile conspiracy in history, involving more than 200 offenders, was rummelled.  The jury was presented with evidence that they had procured children as young as three months old from unsuspecting friends and then shared them with other members of the ring.  The defendants included several men from Glasgow, one of whom was a civil servant, another a former Church of Scotland Elder.  One of the baddies, Colin Slaven, had a year added to his sentence for contempt of court for showing up totally pished during the trial.  Fucking moroculous.  Not the full shilling this cunt, know what I’m saying.   He was mad wi’ it.  Right smeekit he was.

Frank McAvennie, a former Scottish footballer (which I think in Scotland means beach volleyball player), was accused of being part of a 4-man conspiracy to deal a queer lot of ecstacy and amphetamines. The police said that he was observed with the other defendants collecting and transporting the drugs. McAvennie‘s defense was that he was just meeting his mates to play golf.  Pure dead brilliant. Aye, the golf, Scotland’s curse upon the world (though opinions vary), sport of plonkers and choobs. If the cunt’s a git, ye must acquit.

If ye wanna put a quaisten on me or just share some clishmaclaver,  clark me a post at renesance1 (at) gmail (dot) com.  Till next time, ma mukkers, remember that it’s better to be happy than wise.  That’s me away!

Image via www.fife50megs.com, with a valuable Photoshop assist from Nina Hagen.

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