No Thugs In My House

So last night Vladimir Nabokov was eating my cereal and he pointed his spoon at me and said, “That damn Strunk and White. I’d like to pin their bumbling rules of grammar to their tongues and then see if they agree with everything they wrote.”

“Easy, Vlad,” I replied, adding more Weetabix to his lake of milk. “We can’t all be a master English prose stylist.”

“Fuck you,” was his reply, “and get me more plump strawberries.”

If anyone who reads my blogs (including agents looking for a new rubber duck for their literary bath ) ever needs a letter of marque, a writ, or a note to your mum, I’m your man. (I can also do fancy letterhead and pointillism, if I’ve given enough time. Oh, and I can do you a nice erotic farce if you’re game.)

Here are some epigrams:

Have you ever thought about what it would be like to be a raspberry in someone’s mouth and the only evidence of you ever being there would be the seeds?

Nothing is too damned sensual if it feels good. Just ask a ripe pear.

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