Friday, September 17, 2010
He was at it again today. As I made my way down the sidewalk, I could feel his eyes, piercing. Judging. Honestly, I don't know just what he has to be so proud of. Always wearing that same stupid cowboy-esque twin pocket button up/fedora combo. How many times did he wash that shirt to attain that p[perfect "lived-in" look, anyhow? Those arms...pssh. More like a pair of tattooed penises. He was with his wife again today. The smugness is practically suffocating. Those rushed, hushed tones - always followed by a burst of laughter that is stifled almost as soon as it's begun - forced to whimper when it wants to roar. Oh, it will - as soon as the two of them are out of sight and behind closed doors, that is. In the safe silence of the apartment. The car. The corner booth at the local pub for drinks with friends. Where I can't see or hear them. Where they can at last engage in fully uninhibited derision of "Mr. Pendulum Tits". I followed him last week. Everywhere. He doesn't know. But I know. Enough to know he strums the guitar. Enough to know the kids call him "BeEeeex". Enough to know he and some other jackass spout out nonsense in between sessions of painfully bad alternative music videos as a segment for a local television program. Enough to know he is the captain of his own blogosphere vessel. I know. And soon, they'll know. They'll know the wrath of Francis McAvoy - PENDULUM BREASTS.