Do you think Courtney is crazy!
Agreed! Courtney is entirely of the nuts! I am incredulous in the face of it! When we were at the Party of Britney's Slumber, and Felicity McKinley asked if Courtney held in her hearts the lust for Brian Dempsey, and she said no, for she lusted after the bespectacled and doughy Oscar Fulp, I at that time did doubt for her sanity, but when then further, as we played of the Truthful Dare, and she did select Dare, and it was indicated that she must strip bare and then circumnavigate the frontmost yard of the domicile not once but twice, and she then did so not twice but thrice! The site of her narrow white limbs cutting through the velvet dark beyond the grass' edge like and unto an animated swastika, white carved into a black and infinite field— she verily did seem to crackle against the dark of the midnight street. It was truly madness, concentrated to viscosity, funneled into the form of an adolescent female, and then motivating that form out and beyond the well light realm of canopy beds, pink walls, Powder Puffed Girl posters, and Reason itself.
Melissa, I ran the notion past my assistant Rob, as he stood in the Rose Garden outside the window of my newly renovated Oval Office, and he concurred.
"Right Fuckin'-A, Lord A." quoth Rob, "Chicks are nuts as fuck. Been seein' this new gal, Brigit, and it's the same crazy-ass shit: Met her in January, totally hit it off, then she disappears for, like, four months, and then I run into her and its wham, bam, fuckin' in my folks lawn, and she's off again. Men are from Mars and women are from Crazytown— that's all there is. No rhyme, no reason, just crazy fuckin' irrational shit."
"Squidgy, I'm afraid I beg to differ on that count. See—"
Rob smacked the glass of the window with his palm. "Shut the fuck up, Ex-Prez!" he shouted, "No one asked your opinion."
"Simmer down, fella! I've been 'round the mulberry bush a few more times—"
Robbed continued banging and cursing, George Double-Yew uttered some less-than-charitable remarks about the moral character of a "filly" who would amorously fraternize with Rob upon his parent's garden, and the whole matter threatened to devolve into the ridiculous. Fortunately, using my knack for descalatory conflict resolution, I was able to quell the dispute without resorting to unpleasantness, and allowed George Double-Yew to state his piece.
"Now, Squidgy, I'm sure you know I've got nothing but respect for all of the people in your . . . operation. Still, I'm gonna have to beg to differ with your caddy, here."
"Differ this!" Rob shouted, again incensed, madly gesturing towards the Cabinet.
"Shush, Rob, or it shall be the flighted leeches again."
Rob grew to silence, and George Double-Yew continued.
"Alls I'm saying is that folks say you're crazy to be walking around in a snowmobile suit in July— unless your down in the tip of Chile; then it's the fella in the shorts and flip-flops thats crazy. Men talk about women being crazy on account the men don't have any idea what the weather is. You catch me."
"I have caught you, George Double-Yew."
"True that," Rob agreed, "He's caught your ass, alright."
"Yup," George the Doubled-Yew sighed noddingly, "Yup."
I fear for the men of the future, for the Oscar Fulp and Brian Dempseys and the nameless others who will meet Courtney and her ilk as each of she progresses through young womanhood, as her blood flows ever hotter and can no longer be constrained to her form, even as it swells and rounds to accommodate her own waxing, fecund energy. I fear for those human boys who shall lay hand or lip to her, who shall wish for to caress the hairs of her head or dare to gaze too long into the jet-black pools of her imperfect human eyes, whose various digits might wont to dally across the form that she let to expose from beneath her Batz Maru payjaymas afore sprinting out into the Lawn of Britney. In that instant, as we stood bated at the door, Courtney having just burst fourth from among us hesitantless, unconstrained by habit or tradition or conscience or shame or a single textile stitch, I knew that nought would ever retard her forward progress, not even the cool temperancy of Reason, the limiting target of a Goal, or the first thought of Self-Preservation.
There is no doubt that Courtney shall be a slaughterer of men, woe unto you and all.
I Remain (Just Yet),
Your Giant Squid
President of These United States
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