Brown Eggs and Sausage
"Good morning madame! May I cook for you while you read me your poetry?" suggested Mike, the writer with talent to his lover as he sprung forth from the tent in the Arizona Desert.
"No, I’m cooking today, dear! I need you to write a story for the Arts and Leisure section of the Times," demanded the blonde writer with a great ass.
"Are you still fussing about that Nanette De Jesus story? Let it go hon! Nobody cares about a ballerina who grew up and became an old woman," pleaded Mike as he prayed to God she wouldn’t make him write another story for her.
He loved Stephanie’s writing but felt her addiction to Ecastacy and weed was starting to give her writer’s block, although in his honest opinion believed Stephanie couldn’t write prior to her addiction problems.
"Every time I write something for you, it gets rehashed over and over. I don’t mind you doing that, but should I have to listen to you complain about how poorly my grammar is as you re-write my words to suit your psyche?" asked Mike while covering his partly naked body with the palms of his hands.
"I’m sorry Mike. You are right. I’ll write it myself. Well then, I guess you are cooking breakfast," suggested Stephanie while grabbing her pen and pad.
Mike lit the propane fueled Coleman grill and put a cast iron skillet on the flames.
He cracked three brown eggs and removed their yokes. While the grill was heating he chopped up an onion in the palm of his hand, sliced a few mushrooms and sprinkled his ingredients with salt in pepper from little paper packages stored in his U.C.L.A sweatshirt. He threw on a string of pork sausage just to piss Stephanie, the vegetarian, off.
What do you think of my lead, "Nanette de Jesus is no diva, but Melvin Eulenspiegal knows where center stage is"?
"Boring if you ask me. I’d say something like, --Nanette de Jesus can still dance and so can her husband, the fairy--"
"I’m going to marry you and make you Editor-In-Chief of the New York Times," offered the heiress of true and pure journalism– The New York Times, as she carefully wrote down every word that flowed from Mike’s lips that morning at breakfast in the Arizona desert.
Has anyone else heard the Mary J. Blige duet with U2?
Fierce! It’s going to blow up the ghetto.
Beautiful.
It’s a remake of U2's "One".
"No, I’m cooking today, dear! I need you to write a story for the Arts and Leisure section of the Times," demanded the blonde writer with a great ass.
"Are you still fussing about that Nanette De Jesus story? Let it go hon! Nobody cares about a ballerina who grew up and became an old woman," pleaded Mike as he prayed to God she wouldn’t make him write another story for her.
He loved Stephanie’s writing but felt her addiction to Ecastacy and weed was starting to give her writer’s block, although in his honest opinion believed Stephanie couldn’t write prior to her addiction problems.
"Every time I write something for you, it gets rehashed over and over. I don’t mind you doing that, but should I have to listen to you complain about how poorly my grammar is as you re-write my words to suit your psyche?" asked Mike while covering his partly naked body with the palms of his hands.
"I’m sorry Mike. You are right. I’ll write it myself. Well then, I guess you are cooking breakfast," suggested Stephanie while grabbing her pen and pad.
Mike lit the propane fueled Coleman grill and put a cast iron skillet on the flames.
He cracked three brown eggs and removed their yokes. While the grill was heating he chopped up an onion in the palm of his hand, sliced a few mushrooms and sprinkled his ingredients with salt in pepper from little paper packages stored in his U.C.L.A sweatshirt. He threw on a string of pork sausage just to piss Stephanie, the vegetarian, off.
What do you think of my lead, "Nanette de Jesus is no diva, but Melvin Eulenspiegal knows where center stage is"?
"Boring if you ask me. I’d say something like, --Nanette de Jesus can still dance and so can her husband, the fairy--"
"I’m going to marry you and make you Editor-In-Chief of the New York Times," offered the heiress of true and pure journalism– The New York Times, as she carefully wrote down every word that flowed from Mike’s lips that morning at breakfast in the Arizona desert.
Has anyone else heard the Mary J. Blige duet with U2?
Fierce! It’s going to blow up the ghetto.
Beautiful.
It’s a remake of U2's "One".
posted by Charles George Taylor at
8:52 PM
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