Art history is a global version of that old children’s game Chinese whispers.
The Macedonian Endeavour Channel was screening live coverage of the world series of the Who’s Got the Stupidest Name (WGSN) competition. First prize had already gone to Brian Burdock, a French Algerian with a penchant for Longchamp.
Her hair was matted to her head, glistening dark red, like wine through a murky bottle. Her torn shirt hung loose, a breast carelessly exposed, and her breeches were taut against the lean muscles of her legs. She treaded through the waves, never swaying in the current, until she stood before him, face concealed in shadow. “You swim faster with one arm than I with two,
And then this happened. And then this other thing happened. Oh, and I almost forgot to tell you about the time this happened. I should’ve had this book over for a cup of coffee and a chat.
If the word of God cannot do it in your life then your Pastor must be wasting his time.
Lucian stared at him, overwhelmed. “What are you all of a sudden?
Tom, how many children do you think I have to have before I figure out you get them by having sex?”
“Of course there would be protection,” he offered.
“Tons of it.
Foolish potato, talking to her like that won’t work. You’ve got to be mean and show off your foil-wrapped rigidity.
Yo Mama’s so fat, her ass has its own congressman!
China is the same age as I am, and even I have to admit that she wears it better!” He laughed, then stopped and peered at her. “Because I’m a skeleton” he explained.