Unfinished Rosario

It’s pretty much public knowledge that I would chew a certain actress’s panties as part of the recommended daily allowance of seven important vitamins and minerals. What might surprise you, Dear Glorious Revolutionary, is the fact that at 11:59 on a Thursday night I realized just how deep my devotion for this unnamed saint of a woman is. I dreamt about her and, lo, she was not naked. And I saw that she was not naked. And it was good.

Granted certain people can be covered in wet leaves and still give off l’orgaseem (French for le damn), but in the dream she wore a suit vest over a plain white tee, and a pair of biker shorts (no, thank YOU, Jesus). Shoes? I dunno. I didn’t get to her feet.

The point is, the mixture of a lie doth ever add pleasure! Truth was I’d have loved to have had her naked and sliding across the room on baby oil. Gospel truth, no lie. But the addition of those mundane (yet trendy) clothes made brother want to grab the staff and go all biblical. I say unto ye: Boom shaka laka damn.

So instead of preaching this sermon to the Wife, I get up, and I scribble a few words (writing when horny is better than a Krispy Kreme off a model’s ass), then realize, hey, waitaminute, the internet’s on all day. And the YouTube thingey has every image of Man’s history ever recorded, including one nude scene from what I’m told is an unintentionally comedic take on Alexander the Great. Now, I ain’t no student of ancient cultures, but Colin Farrell as anything? Come on. Although I will say this: if you can take a movie sex scene with Rosario Dawson and turn it into the most cringe-worthy slapstick since Mr. Bojangles “accidentally” pimp slapped Shirley Temple, there’s a huge load of dubious talent in there somewhere.

Kudos, Mr. Farrell. Kudos.

So me and Willie watch it, and we’re laughing and we’re looking at each other like, you believe this shit?, when it dawned on me that the unnamed actress (ignore the previous sex paragraph) is more appealing to me clothed and funny and sexy and sultry and hopefully telepathic – HEAR MY THOUGHTS!— than butt naked on a million dollar set. For as much as I would ride an old woman to get to her, her true appeal, my friends...is her soul.

Yeah, marinate for a minute. Flowers and sitars and everything.

Ride an old woman...to get to the one you love. That’s deep.

The soul thing is deep too.

I didn’t even watch the whole clip, because know what? I respected her too much. That wasn’t her on my ‘puter any more than those were her boobs the size of Volvos on your neighborhood multiplex screen that one weekend when Alexander was out. Imagery is nothing but light fooling us. I’m not black and you’re not white and roses aren’t red. Color is illusion. Light’s not the mixture of a lie, light IS the lie. The truth, my Revolutionaries, is in how we pile up the atoms. Can we get any deeper than that? Yes, but I’m not that smart. Last night was a mixture of dream and reality. I’ll make up a science-sounding word: duons. As in do unto others as they need to be done, with life and hunger and a deep appreciation for their various nibbly bits (which is reality). I was devoted to her all the way down to the duons.

So, all 3 of you reading this, the question that gnaws at your soul which only you can answer, is this: Who would you ride an old lady for?

Ride her hard.

I'm so glad dreaming is still free.