Ironically, I promise to keep this short. Paragon of proclivity that I am*, I racked my brain for the better part of today, trying to come up with something both meaningful and beautiful to write about. Because Psychedelic Kimchi, if it can be contained, examined, and analyzed, and despite our oft irreverent views and digressions, is always thematically centered around beauty and all of its
Prove me wrong.
But what, exactly, was there to expound upon that I haven't already? I had an out-of-body experience last night when I feverishly cleared 200 lines in Tetris (take that, Adrian Peterson!), and again this afternoon when I ate eight chicken and beef quesadillas; plus I rewatched Kubricks 2001: A Space Odyssey and personally met the guy who invented ketchup shots (aka the best invention since the sun). But that's nothing new. Same old, same old, as far as you're concerned.
Then it hit me. Like a sauce pan to the eye.
There is one thing which I've admired but have never written about. One great, marvelous thing. Word to Ben Grimm.
Game don't talk about game, I realize, and in doing so I will probably alienate everyone who reads this hallowed site minus myself, but, really, how is that any different from the daily manifesto of one Tiberious aka Sparkles? If anything, what follows is a brief allegorical summation of not only PK, but the Internet in general.
Except this is all true.
I have a wonderful cock. I use it and, sometimes, abuse it. If God indeed exists, and if I was put on Earth with a defined purpose, it is to utilize my blessed appendage efficiently, and display my might only to the divinely chosen. (Which is why I've never taken communal showers or made a porn film.)
I'm not the longest nor the widest by any means. (I am not that fat guy, though I sometimes wish I were**.) Not by any means. Seven or eight inches -- depending on how long I've been sheathed -- and with the girth of a ballpark frank, what I am missing in pure dimensions I more than make up for in astonishing beauty. It truly is a sight to behold.
I often sarcastically mention my killer smile, my alluring bombardier's eyes, my slender torso; half-jokingly, because, if you've ever met me or seen my mugshot on The Smoking Gun, you know that I'm to handsomeness what Kenny Anderson was to basketball. Or, better, Derrick Coleman.
That I will admit. Like the Arctic Monkeys, I'm full of mediocrity from head to foot.
(Save for my pristine and remarkable penis.)
I'll admit, I'm my own worst critic. (I'll also admit that I opened and re-wrapped my presents on Christmas morning when I was twelve, and pretended to look surprised after discovering for the second time that I didn't receive your sensual lips, your kiss.) But every time I stand naked in front of a mirror, I marvel at the gift God bestowed me.
It's form is simply astounding. And when I die (Wednesday morning, by my calculations), it is written in my will that a mold be sent to The Smithsonian.
Because it is that good.
Until then, you're just going to have to trust me on the point.
* I'm like the Bizarro Idealjetsam in that regard. With guitars.
** mindset of a champion