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If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not read this salty tale. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means read on.

(a true tale from the castro; eat your heart out armistead)

© 2016 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin

Larkin Squarepants Update (23 October 2015)

[ Vaxingeral Reader: this first part is a followup to my previous blog entry, "Larkin Squarepants." I know it's not easy for Larkin--being so harsh towards me--though I realize he's doing it so that I may grow in spiritual wisdom. Of course, those who have a blindfold perspective on life have already judged me a deluded sucker for abuse. But taking the Buddha's stance that we have no enemies, only teachers, I must interpret his negatory actions as a challenge to find the positive motive hidden therein. Thus (I have concluded) I needed to figure out how to turn his apparent nastiness around into a win-win outcome for us both. His latest threat to file a restraining order against me--using his cell phone to take my pic whenever I appear, in order to build a case--did give me grief for three days. Allow me now to describe the evolution of my angst into a compassionate closure. ]

Step 1: I was rightfully pissed that he would even suggest dumping such an awful cross on my shoulders. Me--who only harbors great affection towards My Asinine Axolotl--and would never do anything worse than heckle him now and then for his crude actions. So naturally I had nightmares over him taking me to court and sending me to jail (as he so declared with a finger pointing in my direction). Using His Irresistible Charisma to persuade judge and jury to fuk me over. Regardless of all the solid evidence I had against His Dragonly Deception. For if Satan really exists, he is Larkin Kelsey (I have concluded).

Step 2: Researching via the Internet, I learned that I could reverse his restraining order, and even override it with my own...if my evidence were stronger. And it is. So I then suffered nightmares of winning my point, and sending him off to jail. Which would be a pyrrhic victory, seeing as I'd no longer get to enjoy This Exquisite Koksucker's Presence, whether in conflict or mutual kindness. And my own TRO would force him to remain nonexistent in my troubled world for three years minimum. But at least I knew then, I could beat his accusation against me. And I could drop the charges contingent upon a judiciary reconsideration. So maybe, I mused, I could lift the TRO after putting him through several months' destitution. For he could not enter Twin Peaks Tavern if I stood anywhere within 60 feet of that dive.

Step 3: Seeing as I live in The Castro, and am a frequent pedestrian throughout the neighborhood--especially where I hang out at the corner of Castro & Market, which is also the main locale of Larkin's "little corner of The Castro" via Twin Peaks--he could take as many photos of me as he wants. Because that would in no way provide "proof" that I am stalking him. Since I have hanged out there for many years long before dipwad showed up. And is one of several stations where I get to hook up with any number of street friends. Besides, the courts frown upon false restraining orders by those with a selfish agenda, which frequently occurs in this society of bitchy backstabbers. Judges are well acquainted with such petty vendettas. Ergo: I was ready to rumble!

Step 4: I came to the realization that he simply challenged me to fight back...that his threat was no more than hollow words. In this way, my anxieties that Larkin triggered were negative ideas tossed my way for me to rechannel into a positive result. Therefore I should oppose his threat by encouraging him to take pics of me whenever he wants. Sure enough, three days later I encountered him once more at Twin Peaks Tavern.

Continuing the Update

He stepped out to smoke another Camel 99 while I watched from nearby, at the southern edge of Jane Warner Plaza. He stood about 16 feet distant, puffing away while I gazed upon His Lovely Self. As he reentered the tavern, I loudly called:


Ten or so more minutes passed before he stepped out once more, pretending to ignore my presence barely 15 feet away. As he returned into the bar, I chastised:

"C'mon, take my picture. Please, please, please, please, please!"

Larkin totally ignored me, though that was more than enough to show me he was calling my bluff...and would not respect me if I did not fight back. Some time later (about 20 minutes while I hovered around the tavern like a phantom) he exited and marched towards Market Street. I began to follow him, but he looked back and swerved west, as if that would throw me off. I simply stood on the corner of Market & 17th, waiting to cross.

He traversed Market from the other side, as I called "Ha!" to him again. I then moved parallel to his stroll and hollered "Ha!" once more from across Market. While Larkin moved east towards Noe, I ran down 17th, planning to intersect him at Noe. But then it occurred to me he might be advancing towards his new residence on Pond Street. So I ran further down 17th and up Pond, in order to head him off at the pass.

Bright headlights from cars parked along Pond blinded me all the way to the local library on 16th Street, much to my frustration. Yet I kept a sharp eye peeled for My Lascivious Lizard as I approached Market Street a half block beyond 16th. No luck. So as I turned left to cross Market and arrive hovel, I saw a handsome fellow on a bicycle whiz by me, who I thought looked like my good pal and blow buddy, Zach.

So I hurried to catch up and called to him: "Zach!" He did not respond, but drifted to the other side of Noe. At which point I caught up with him and hollered his name once more. Sure enough, it was Zach! He halted and turned to me, after removing his pocket radio ear plugs (a radio which I had gifted him with two months ago).

"Oh, hey, Zeke!"

"I just saw you from around the corner, and ran up to you. But you didn't hear me the first time."

"I guess not," he replied with that wan New Orleans smile that always melted my heart like crawdaddies in clarified butter. "What are you doing right now?" (Of course that kind of question from him in particular, begged for a sweet BJ, which I so eagerly crave these days I can barely keep my saliva in check. My first taste of his rigid shaft and mushroom crown hooked me forever, like a junkie for smack.)

"Oh, just getting some air before heading home. I did see Larkin, which was good."

"Maybe I'll visit you in a little while," he replied, then took off like he was on a critical mission. But I knew it was his darling humility that stood in the way. For during his last visit--an overnight stay--he caught me during early sunrise, attempting to jack off in spite of my difficulty to obtain a full hard-on. As soon as I realized he had sat up and softly remarked "Whoa!" I pulled up my pants, apologized for the gaucherie.

"Okay Zach," I hollered over his headphones, "See you later tonight perhaps. But if not, another time soon."

Then I walked home and spent the evening thinking of his sweet company and heroic equipment before I finally crashed out 1:30 AM or so. He never did show up, but I figured:

"If not this evening, another night soon. Whatever." I was happy to dive into that Cajun basket whenever he dropped trou and flung it out. He'd usually recline on the comforter, blue jeans lowered just enough to push those balls up in bold display. With these racy thoughts I drifted off into slumber.

He beckons me with a passion-flush face, eyelids closed to bare slits. Moaning from my lips' firm pressure, Zach's rod sproings in friendly anticipation of my teeth nibbling on that fleshy cap before my tongue takes command. His hips thrust forward, then recoil like a puckish waif: a playful tease that drives me wild as my tongue wrestles to get that bone back inside. My copious drool slicks up that praiseworthy kok to the point of piston-pumping fervor. His prodigal phallus pleads in desperation to be nestled tight within my mouth, all the way down to the base. Lest the first ejaculation burst into the ether instead of down my parched throat.

So I part my lips just enough to slide that horn back into its sheath, but not without a struggle. My embattled tongue pushes down like a soldier on leave, then glides with harsh demand all about that spunky shaft. Cocking his rigid joystick to one side then another with my tongue, I worship it like a prized relic, toying that righteous wand back and forth across his taught belly. Zach's boner pumps in pre-spasm, yearning like Jesus's most beloved apostle for another embrace.

I answer his prayer with primal epiphany, my reward joyful geysers of jism that seem to spurt forever. Yet semen still streams down that honeyed shaft and onto his thighs. Rich, sweet and thick, I lap it up while Zach's feisty prick continues to gush rivulets. I savor every drop like a dog its master's plate. He mumbles such rapture I can't believe that it's actually me who makes This Bayou Rascal so pleased. (For I am 65, and Zach, 37.)

Though now depleted, he forces both hands upon my head; will not let me back off, even for a moment. His newly engorged kok and my mouth are now one in ecstasy. He cums for a second time, exploding copiously as before! I drink from This Holy Grail of Camaraderie until the very last seeds flow from Zach's soul and into my own.

Meanwhile, Zach mutters in some sort of unbidden ecstasy; his moans and soft "oh yeah buddy" exclamations ring in my ears like a distant bell on a foggy, chill morn. I want so badly then to slide my tongue between his slightly parted lips from which flow words and sounds of immeasurable joy.

I keep his punk johnson stuffed against the roof of my mouth, sucking on it like no tomorrow while his balls press upon my chin like two firm, plush cushions. Swirling them about with restless pleasure, I clutch those hefty testicles through a scrotum kissed by curly golden-red hairs. I covet that stiff wand between tongue and roof until the last spasm passes, and Zach pushes me away. I want to make him hard once more, and immediately. And know I easily can, if only his shyness does not intrude.

My face still resting sideways upon his thigh, his dick grows rigid with lust. Thrusting its full girth between my pursing lips, he pulsates wads of viscous cum like clotted cream upon my tongue. Four times is enough for me.

Enough to not bother finding someone else though the night is still young.

Letter to Rufus (October 23rd 2015)

[ Tenderfooted Reader: Rufus is a resident of my apartment building for more than 15 years. While our association has been dotted with hostile conflicts (usually due to my liberal stance on behalf of our LGBT homeless), we are more frenemies than enemies, as time has worked out. He resides one floor above me. Rufus is morbidly obese, and has been that way since before we first met. Not that I hold it against him, just that I wouldn't want to hold anything of myself against him, Zeus forbid. I composed and printed out the following letter to him, which I inserted above the doorknob of his residence on the evening of the same day indicated in the following missive.]

Dear Rufus:

Regarding our brief conversation this early evening, October 23rd, when our paths crossed near the intersection of 17th & Market:

Again, my condolences for you having to go through the ordeal of surgery that required removal of a kidney. And thank you for comprehending my dire medical insurance debacle, which you may read about, here:

Obamacare Defecates on the Poor

As far as I know, there is no doctor or clinic that will take me on pro bono (as you so dimwittedly suggested). Believe me, I have looked into this and grown exhausted at the effort. My disgust towards Amerika's medical system knows no bounds at this point...and I really don't want any medical worker to even touch me. I will either perish or thrive, based on nature's dictate. Period.

Having said this, I want to assure you that I will be victorious with my class action lawsuit against California, along with a second lawsuit against these disUnited States. Don't know how I will achieve this conquest, but I do know I will.

Much to my exasperation I have met others on a low income, who claim to be receiving Healthy SF, along with Medi-Cal and Medicare...without having to pay any fee for whatever medical services they need. Yet when I contacted Healthy SF they told me that because I receive health care through Medi-Cal and/or Medicare, they cannot help me. For their service is only here to provide care to those San Franciscans who are ineligible for either of those two other services!

So I don't know what the fuk is going on, because my situation seems to be limited to yours truly, and no one else. As if I were the only person on the planet who is being persecuted by gov't BS. Which I don't believe, even for a nanosecond. Upon researching via the Internet, I have discovered many other folks who cannot afford any sort of medical care, even after the ACA has become law. Therefore, I now realize my only option is to start a class action lawsuit against Medi-Cal, and Medicaid in general. Two lawsuits, that is.

The hypocrisy of the Democratic Party--and of the so-called progressive media by virtue of not addressing this issue--is way beyond any rational excuse. So there you have it, my long term neighbor: the universal mind has so deemed that I must be the whistle blower on this issue. So be it. Just when I've made so many breakthroughs and have garnered as a result, many loving friendships by those who really cannot live without me. Those who are either homeless or otherwise seriously disenfranchised. Should I die at this point, or soon, many will grieve. Yet by hook or by crook, I shall win This Egregious Battle. And in so doing, save 14 million lives or more. On another note:

So glad you finally got a glimpse of My Glorious Boyfriend, Larkin Kelsey (who is called Arwyn Miles in my first published novel). He is highly telepathic, thus knows whenever I have a gift or letter to present him by hand. And he always comes up with a most unique way of accepting it with good grace...usually after setting me up to believe he'll reject my latest offering. In today's scenario, he decided to run by me in a flurry, while I stood there talking with you. Nonetheless, at the very last moment, he paused to grab the Halloween card from my hand before rushing off. Included in that card was a poem I typed, printed out and glued to the inside:

So thank you for reading this letter, and know that I am fighting for your well-being, as well as that of millions of others so relegated to substandard treatment by a gov't that no longer gives a shit about its citizens, except those who are uber-wealthy.

Most sincerely,

Ezekiel J. Krahlin

Three Days Later (October 27th 2015)

Once more I viewed Larkin seated inside TPT, kissing up to all sorts of dudes whom he thought might have a fat wallet with which to buy him drinks...and, perhaps, other amenities. For just two evenings ago, I watched him slide a hand down a youngish (but-undeserving-'cause-slimy) guy's derriere. Even though Larkin's Latest Blood Sacrifice was accompanied by a friend (perhaps lover), for Larkin Knows His Prey. So how do you think I feel--head over tail for almost 9 years, over the Most Glorious Dragon of All Dimensions--upon discovering only today that:

The man I love is a bona fide vampire!

Not that this bothers me, or makes me jealous; but that Larkin's demonstrating this goosy behavior in my presence is what he thinks will piss me off. I find it quite hilarious, and even support whatever works for him, to keep a roof over his jubilant head and enjoy each day. For if I were as handsome as he, I'd most likely be the same way...especially if I were financially strapped, and/or a desperate blood-sucker. Especially if it were a Great Act of Compassion to not only save the soul of one so belove-ed, but to make him the Happiest Sentient Being in This Dimension or Any Other. (Who is me of course: did you have anyone else in mind?)

Thus My Bat-Brained Beelzebub remained up here in San Francisco instead of returning to his home base in San Diego, where he would keep his career as a private investigator and consequently preserve his health and dental services. But he did not do that, for the sake of my own protection. He remained up here to watch over me; even moved into my neighborhood, the Castro, six years ago and barely one block up Market Street. He now has to hustle elderly queers for escort and overnight services, out of the local bars (main one being Twin Peaks Tavern). All non-sexual I would hope.

His teeth rot, though his spirit remain. To learn more about this adventure, please read "Chapter 13" of my online novel, "Free Me From This Bond." Which chapter is entitled "The Phone Call." Always free to read in cyberspace.

But what does irk me, is that he refuses to resume our friendship. Not only that: he persists in telling everyone he meets, that I am his stalker, and a horrible person in many other ways. What I think he didn't expect, is that I would push back for so many months that it has now been almost three years since Larkin first turned on me. When it comes to avenging wrongs against me, I am like a pit bull: fearless and unrelenting, even if it takes the rest of my life to see justice done.

Since Larkin persists in acting like I'm a jealous pea brain, I decided enough is enough, I shall give him the third degree. So I stood outside, moving now and then wherever he could view me through the plate glass. Naturally, he turned his head away from me every single time. But that did not deter me in the least. I mimicked his gestures like a novice mime, including his fake smiles and tilts of the head that he employed to gain a patron's favor. (Like a budgie looking at his master from a gilded cage.) All in the hope that said customer had a fat wallet, and would buy him drinks or even gift him with a 10 or 20 dollar bill. What it came down to is this:

Fuk you, Zeke, you're poorer than a jailbird!

But I knew long by now that love conquers all: not the least of which is rejection of monetary consideration. And I can only be grateful for meeting This Stupendous Shaman in the first place. For he promises me everything, and I know he shall not disappoint. So here is what happened after My Glorious Godzilla exited TPT:

"Get outta my life!" he hollered, waving his gangly arms but five feet away from me.

"Larkin, you're the King of Smooth Moves," I answered back. "I should get some tips from you."

"Get the hell away from me!"

"No, I will not. You're the Lounge Lizard of the Castro bar circuit," I persisted. "I saw you slide your hand down some patron's lower back. I think it's darling, how you act like a trollop in spite of your now being 53 years old." I continued with the onslaught:

"I think it's very cute, how you behave. I totally support you. If I had your incredible good looks, I'd probably do the same thing." I further explicated:

"You surround yourself with dumb, easily manipulated alcoholic jerkwads, and turn them against me."

"Manipulate? I don't know that word," he declared.

"Then I'll explain it to you. When you manipu..." He interrupted:

"I know what the word 'manipulate' means. I just don't know it in my world."

"Well then," I retaliated, "I don't know any of the hateful terms you've used against me!"

He then crossed 17th to Market, as a streetcar attempted to roll forward. But halted because Larkin's crisscrossing the intersection--with my pursuing him back and forth--blocked its progress. After three attempts at his trying to separate us between this car, he gave up and gestured politely to the driver to go on. Thus I remained in his presence as the streetcar surged forward. He then marched on to Hartford Street and around the corner, with the intent to discourage me from continuing to haunt him. But I knew he had to return to TPT, as that is where he left his jacket hanging over a barstool.

I awaited his return by rushing across 17th and standing a few doors down from TPT. It was dark, and he didn't see me until returning up that sidewalk. So when he got really close I hollered:

"Look, I'm not doing anything to disturb your social life. I'm just heckling you, for what you've done to me."

As he passed my presence, he turned and swiped the cigarette from my mouth, with a glare that spoke of embattled angst (but such a glorious face I couldn't deny). So I whipped out my pepper spray as he turned around to give me another swipe (I knew he'd actually never harm me):

"Back off Larkin!" I declared while holding an extended arm about to squirt his darling mug. "I really don't want to hurt you."

He raised an arm to shield his eyes, then stepped away and walked on towards Castro Street, which he crossed. I then followed him parallel to his spanning Market, from where I hollered: "Ha!"

Larkin suddenly turned round to walk down Castro to 18th, thinking he had tricked me into losing his path. But I followed him on the other side of the street, without him realizing I was still on his tail. By the time I had reached 18th, he entered Walgreens. So as I was about to cross Castro to follow him into the store, he reemerged while I hid behind a telephone pole.

When he crossed in my direction, I held back until he almost arrived on my side...then stepped out and called:

"Get those juicy wallets, Larkin! You're cheap trash who should be exposed for your scummy behavior."

Upon spotting me, he swerved left towards the bus stop on the opposite corner. Where he stood behind the divider like a ghostly spirit. But I persisted:

"You're a freak, Larkin! No one likes you, you're just using them for free drinks and cash." (Which I really don't think is true, as he is actually a most gracious fellow to many; but that is the way he wants to play the game.)

He suddenly jumped out from the frosted partition to confront me.

"Step back!" I commanded with a raised arm and pepper spray canister aimed at his direction. "Get your act together, buddy!"

Larkin then turned away and marched up 18th street towards the Badlands bar, into which he disappeared as I trailed him from the opposite side. Ten minutes or so passed while I hanged about the area, even strolling by Badlands twice, to see if I could view him through the plate glass. I could not, thus assumed he lurked somewhere in the back, beyond the glance of any pedestrian.

Finally, I returned hovel without even finding some other hot dude to relieve my ejaculatory urges.

My relationship with Larkin is often frustrating.

Red Light, Green Light (October 29th 2015)

On my way to Rossi's for a pack of Fortunas I saw Larkin, but hid in a shop doorway until the traffic light was about to turn red. Once the green light counted down to 7, I walked by Larkin (who stood outside Twin Peaks puffing on a ciggie), stood at the curb and hollered:

"Oh look the light just changed to red. Now I have to stand here and listen to your insults until it turns green again!"

"Get outta here, get outta my face," screamed My Gesticulating Gigantosaurus. "Go ahead, cross the street right now!"

"Oh, I don't think that's a good idea," I replied with delicious retribution.

"No, just move along and disappear!" he commanded.

"Oh, you only need wait less than a minute, my darling, before the light changes. Then I shall cross."

"No!" he ordered, "Get the fuk outta my face, now!"

"Sorry, but I can't do that, unless I wanna risk injury."

Then he spoke to some homeless person with shoulder length hair and a guitar slung over his Mick Jagger rame. Just to make me jealous, I suppose. So I called to him:

"Look, only 40 seconds before I cross the street. Surely you can deal with that."

"Get the fuk away!" raged Larkin, glaring at me while his temporary cohort remained cluelessly unaware. (Lemme tell ya, peepulz, he really picks the slow ones, like a bear picks berries!)

"Deal with it, sweetheart!" I gloated and threw him a kiss.

Some moments passed, whereby I decided to walk down 17th Street several yards in order to muse upon My Lovely Boyfriend's face. Which he turned away from my glance while attempting to continue conversation with that long haired straggler. Thus I repositioned myself to remain in sight. Turning my angle so as to continue to appear before him, even once the guitarist departed.

At one moment Larkin grimaced at me from beside the telephone pole, rather than hide his face. So I signaled with a wave of my left hand, that he position his mug where I can no longer view it; for I know the dude's game. But he just glared back, like I was an utter offense to his integrity. So I then walked onto the 17th Street tarmac while he rotated his visage behind the pole, except for a portion of his lanky frame. From 10 feet distant I called out:

"Did you know that restless leg syndrome runs in the family?"

A joke that some folks don't get right away, though I knew he would, albeit refuse to reward me with the guffaw it well deserves. Many times so far have I attempted to crack his poker face, but to no avail. Larkin finally broke away from his elusive position and walked towards the entryway of TPT. At which moment he turned to me with a sour look, and declared:

"You think I have a brain tumor, do you? So what are you trying to do now, make it explode?"

I did not respond, but simply smiled at this man's silly acquiescence to my devotion. For I knew he wouldn't convey such a remark if his love were not equal to mine. Then he spun away, bent over with both hands clutching butt cheeks...and with a wiggle declared:

"Fuk you, Zeke!"

Though maybe he said "You too, Zeke," because just before he did that I wished him a very nice Halloween. I'm not sure exactly which statement he voiced (though his "fuk you" remark while grabbing his ass has long become the standard riposte), only because the traffic din fogged my eardrums.

Some moments later (as I remained leaning against the buttress of Jane Warner Plaza) Larkin ran back out and ordered: "Quick, give me a cigarette."

Whiling plundering my backpack for the Fortunas, I observed the Camel 99 dangled between his fingers.

"But you already have a cigarette!"

"Please, just give me one," he begged.

So I did, upon which he ran up to the streetcar island where this skinny geezer named Admiral was parked with a scrappy duffel bag. (He is a homeless, white haired 50-something who showed up in the Castro about 18 months ago, FYI. Not friendly to me at first; in fact, hostile. But months later I saw his true nature, which was kind. He has an eagle nose, foggy blue eyes, and dresses in shabby glamor.)

[Walks up to the Admiral and hands him my cig. Then I hang w/Admiral for a while, get stoned.]

I stand around, playing Larkin's "face off" game.

Since Larkin keeps haranguing me, instead of crossing the street I seat myself upon the concrete ledge.

So tonight (October 30th) I sent him a Monterey tourist postcard with a cartoon image of Patrick from the Spongebob Squarepants series, with the following statement taped to the front, in 14-point Arial font:

Never mind it's illegal to hit up patrons for free drinks.
Larkin don't care, though his motive does stink.
Bartenders love it for the tips from rich tricks.
Just ask barkeep Sloan from a bar called The Mix.

And just below that (taped as a separate strip, but in smaller font):

Something I'm considering on sending to the bars in the Castro,
if you don't make things up to me before this holiday season is over.

On the address side that included the Patrick image, I hand printed this:

Putting it Together (November 3rd 2015)

Alas, I heard not a peep from Larkin on Halloween. I just hunkered down in my SRO and watched some nifty movies of scary plot, hoping that he'd phone me, or call up to my window. Next morning I felt very well because, for one, I had a good sleep (rare for insomniacs like myself). In spite of my predictable disappointment. Also because I still regard myself as a very lucky chap to have him in my life, albeit sporadic and riddled with opposition. I am a bag of nerves more than ever, thanks to Larkin's mischief. Sparse moments in my life have I ever felt truly at peace...and This Miscreant Mesosaur has only exacerbated my woes. He is indeed an albatross of devotion that hangs 'bout my neck. Lovesickness is no piece of cake.

Thinking of Thanksgiving today while online at The Posh Bagel, I decided to see what sort of Spongebob Squarepants gift to include. I saw the plush beanie doll of "Sheldon J. Plankton," I knew that was it! Because very cute and very weird. He is Spongebob's arch enemy, always scheming to make Mr. Squarepants' life difficult.

Also included in my gift packet will be a DVD of that righteous cartoon series, "Adventure Time." Which I only recently discovered via Youtube (and where it originated, I think), and fell in love with the series at first sight. Volume 1 was the least expensive (though highly rated in the reviews), so I went for that. Don't know what else I'll include in this assembly of sweet geegaws, but I have plenty of time. Just hoping, however, that the beanie and DVD will arrive at least a couple of days before Turkey Terror comes and goes.

Of course I'll include a nice Thanksgiving card, though probably not Scooby-Doo themed. Because as you may know (if you've read my most recent accounts prior to this one), Larkin simply adores anything Scooby-Doo. So I'm punishing him for his continued crude behavior towards This Miserable Minstrel, by purposely not selecting any Scooby-Doo type gifts, cards or stickers...for a change. And since he claims to abhor Spongebob, well then naturally I chose that particular icon just to get under My Supercilious Sea Serpent's Scintillating Slithery Scales.

[ To be honest, Krakatoac Reader, I think I've run out of Scooby-Doo mileage, seeing how difficult it has now become to dig up something of that cartoon series which is not blatantly childish. Besides: how could I ever hope to top that Scooby-Doo/Snoopy pillowcase I presented last Easter? Truly an awesome windfall that arrived unbidden at my cyber doorstep...and which I don't care to sully by lesser so-themed treasures. But maybe--just maybe--the card itself will feature Scooby-Doo, even if I have to create one myself. Only because I am an incorrigible sucker for Larkin's Loopy Love. ]

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