The Things Enrique Iglesias Does

How does the word “tongue-lashing” make you feel?

Does it remind you of that wonderfully awkward mistake last Friday?

Does it remind you of a mosh pit filled with drooling muscles?

It reminds me of the strong urge I get.  I want to peel back my eyelids and eat them, one after.  Squish.  Slurp.

After the eyelids, I pluck out my eyelids. (Eyeballs?) Like grapes!

Grapes make you bloated.

“Tongue-lashing” reminds me of the way our taste buds fit together like the teeth of cogs in clockwork.

Some cogs sour…some salty…and some SWEET until a source of biterness takes that innocence away.

Innocence can only be taken away by the sad passing of time.

What mistake?

Mistakes make the best stories anyway so it’s best to be a prolific fuck up.

I do what I wish.  Fell what I feel.  I need to lord.

What does the word “tongue-lashing at the hipster ballroom full of tweeded, checkered, cute little children,” mean to you?

I think to myself “I can’t be a hipster, because unlike a hipster, I’m actually gay.”

I like my  new haircut.  Speaking of gay.  I love gay men.  And my hair is so flawless.  This is a lot of fun.  Happy.

FUCK. FUCKING ECSTATIC!

But I digress.  Tongue lashing makes me feel like screaming at Herman Cain.

Or screaming because of Herman Cain.  Dude can fuck.

He fucks like a thundering herd of alpaca, a nude Margaret Thatcher sitting astride the alpha male.

Ah, Margaret Thatcher! The Iron Lady, played by Meryl Streep.

Friday November 18th, $1 donation equals $10 in food.

Be a generous soul.

Because mom always said pretty is as pretty does.

Like the tall clouds hanging like white lanterns in the evening sky, only bringing deep, shaking rumbles and blazing lightening.