What’s Up, Vanilla?
You there, Argental Nymph of the Frosty Avenue!
I see you walking along, your milky pallor illuminating every yard of this bustling thoroughfare, and I have to admit: I’ve never seen anything quite as tempting as you. Or as white.
And so I’m compelled to say, “What’s up, Vanilla?”
No Eskimo igloo nor snow-capped Kilimanjaro nor any hoary sperm whale conjured by Melville himself could compare to the exquisite whiteness that you exhibit. This is what caused my ejaculation. I did not mean it any way but as praise. Please stop yelling at me.
I’ve seen some of the finest, largest pearls to grace the planet exhumed from giant oysters by Japanese skin divers. And I have witnessed the gruff and bosky Dutch milkmaids in Amsterdam churning the most delicate cream I have ever tasted. Still, these things pale in comparison to you. Pun intended.
Even the finest business paper of 25% cotton fiber does not come close to you. And I know business paper as I sell it to Fortune 500 companies for a living. That’s how I do, Vanilla.
But if I’ve otherwise insulted you, or you’ve been taken aback by my comment, then surely you’ve not been doted upon as you deserve by a fine, albinic man such as myself. You’ve made me turn to molten steel, my canescent cockatiel. You are the Beatrice to my Dante, a man who knows a little something about the white-hot fires of Hell, which is where I will surely be if you don’t come inside this bar and have a drink with me.
The fact that you have not read the poetry of Dante does not surprise me. The fact that you’ve refused my offer of a delicious White Russian, however, does surprise me.
That’s fine, Vanilla. You walk along your lily-white way. I’ll stand here, thinking of you, your ghostly alabaster burned into the Italian marble of my memory. And I will remember you every time I pour non-dairy creamer into my coffee or indulge in a pint of white-chocolate chip ice cream from Maggie Moo’s or lather myself in a foamy bath with Ivory soap.
And I will remember you especially as my fractured ribs mend from the effects of that enormous block of salt you’ve just thrown at me.
I see you walking along, your milky pallor illuminating every yard of this bustling thoroughfare, and I have to admit: I’ve never seen anything quite as tempting as you. Or as white.
And so I’m compelled to say, “What’s up, Vanilla?”
No Eskimo igloo nor snow-capped Kilimanjaro nor any hoary sperm whale conjured by Melville himself could compare to the exquisite whiteness that you exhibit. This is what caused my ejaculation. I did not mean it any way but as praise. Please stop yelling at me.
I’ve seen some of the finest, largest pearls to grace the planet exhumed from giant oysters by Japanese skin divers. And I have witnessed the gruff and bosky Dutch milkmaids in Amsterdam churning the most delicate cream I have ever tasted. Still, these things pale in comparison to you. Pun intended.
Even the finest business paper of 25% cotton fiber does not come close to you. And I know business paper as I sell it to Fortune 500 companies for a living. That’s how I do, Vanilla.
But if I’ve otherwise insulted you, or you’ve been taken aback by my comment, then surely you’ve not been doted upon as you deserve by a fine, albinic man such as myself. You’ve made me turn to molten steel, my canescent cockatiel. You are the Beatrice to my Dante, a man who knows a little something about the white-hot fires of Hell, which is where I will surely be if you don’t come inside this bar and have a drink with me.
The fact that you have not read the poetry of Dante does not surprise me. The fact that you’ve refused my offer of a delicious White Russian, however, does surprise me.
That’s fine, Vanilla. You walk along your lily-white way. I’ll stand here, thinking of you, your ghostly alabaster burned into the Italian marble of my memory. And I will remember you every time I pour non-dairy creamer into my coffee or indulge in a pint of white-chocolate chip ice cream from Maggie Moo’s or lather myself in a foamy bath with Ivory soap.
And I will remember you especially as my fractured ribs mend from the effects of that enormous block of salt you’ve just thrown at me.
posted by MASchiavo at 12:39 AM
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