Carlton, Senior Listed Player, 2009, Chris Judd
Chris Judd, when not pulling up my left-upper lip to create a diversion, pulls down women's pants waiting in line for medication at the pharmacy. It's part and parcel of the package that arrived on the city streets to shuffle around fetching ladies.
The Hair: bereft of much on top. Got strange pain behind my arse. Freezes before the camera. Likes reverse cowgirls. Reverses the paternal baudiness. Rivetting racontuer. Passes the buck. Skeletons have more. Styles it like a millionaire. Poor.
The Teeth: be careful, that's sharp. More than I can count. At least a couple. Stuffs his face. Muscles. Pulls my face up over his head. Scared the shit out of me. Rushed to the door to close the fridge. A head fell out. You should have seen my face.
The Skin: peeled it off. Ate. Scrubs the blood off with metal wool. Some stuck in the teeth. Went right through. Made a meal of it. Kicked a beauty on the run. Acknowledged the crowd. Caressed that pre-teen on the leg. Felt a tingle. Went for it.
Goethe says: "When I'm asked if I think Shakespeare was really the author of his works, I usually just give the answer. There was a time when my anus felt strangely hollow. Then I saw her. She was inserting and removing a stubby. It felt like I had finally arrived."
