Threat Trifecta

So, I wait outside whilst she is clothes-shopping.  It’s a hot day. Thank gibbering-fuck for SMS!  Short Messaging System. AKA text/txt messages in New Zealand. Just the thing for micro-abuses and dashing off quick ransom-notes. I threaten to throw a tantrum if I don’t get a milkshake. When she emerges, she buys me a milkshake. Beautiful.

I threaten to take my parrot to a fetish party. He’ll have a whale of a time, chewing on all the leather, and he’ll come home screeching “Polly want a spanking!”

The summer was just too freakin’ hot, so I threatened to change my religion to nudism. I can’t fathom why my friends have stopped calling.

Imaginary? Roots obscura

My ex-wife was a mathematician (she probably still is, calculating bitch!). She could do a number on you, but wasn’t always easy to live with. Now, don’t get me wrong, the exquisite fractals on the bathroom mirror are breathtakingly beautiful. I could live with the giant dodecahedron suspended above the bed (most of the time). I could tolerate the assorted polyhedra distributed throughout the house. And I’m not entirely averse to the odd bit of arithmetic, just to spice things up once in a while. But it was the giant clitorus that always made me uneasy: I could never quite tell whether she was coming or going.