28 Tribute to all women!

Alain de Tochigi, the Frisco Ninja, circled Ross Valley’s Kentfield home to see if a previous landing site was still viable. But his attention was drawn away from business by another spate of copulation between the modest magnate and _____ _____, film colony duchess.
“Wow!” the Frisco Ninja said, louder than the wind whistled at two hundred yards aloft. It wasn’t a voyeuristic observation. It was his reaction to the sturdiness of the chaise lounge, carnality’s poolside platform. “Must be teak!”
He repeated himself, although this time indeed it was urged by voyeurism. “Wow!” whipped out of his throat into a crosswind, provoked by the mathematics of Ross’s refractory index. It was less than an hour earlier when Frisco reeled in his wobbly charges. They’d gathered around his cell phone and listened to sounds of silence during the deed of darkness, however much it was enacted loudly in the light of day.
Though of humble origins, the Frisco Ninja was not without refined thoughts. He gave credit to the power of loveliness, and how such frequent venery was a tribute to the woman at hand. “Tribute to all women!” Frisco added, a precaution in case of high in the sky eavesdropping.
It was the way of the ninja to blend, to be in disguise; there was no better blending disguise in Marin County than to express a political palliative with post-feminist coloring.

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One Response to “28 Tribute to all women!”

  1. MOD Says:

    The furniture is always so much more important than the people sitting [or whatever] on it! You got that absolutely right.

    I’ve held off, or been held off, reading your inspired diatribes as I’ve switched computers and lost my marbles…

    Now, is this done on purpose — of course it is — Ninja Frisco [I’ll use his common vulgar name] talks just like an old Hollywood movie stereotype. How I’ve missed him. However, be advised, the thought police are on the prowl. Is he white and in stage make-up, just like Mama Gin Sling? A tranny, perhaps, who once had a dalliance at Raffles with Somerset M., before the troubles began…

    I can feel the danger mounting and the dangling modifiers accumulating, but I still want more. Mine is a guilty passion. If I could I would stop reading The Flyswatter, but my head is throbbing and my gut is aching: GIVE ME MORE.

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