*laszlo cravensworth voice* Back in the twilight of the nineteenth century, in England, there was a spate of grisly murders, not far from myself and my lady wife’s old stomping grounds. Brutal stuff. The fellow used to asphyxiate young ladies, and then surgically remove theirspines. Which was rather fascinating for myself, of course, given my recentjauntsinto the realm of a more involvedform of hunting in Whitechapel, but understandably quite terrifying for the local girls. Even the working girls at my favourite brothel were bloody bricking it, and they were some tough birds, real scrappy molls. So I wrote them a rallying cry of sorts, a bit of a brothel shanty, to bouy the old spirits. So that they could stand proudly, arm in arm and tit to tit, and holler to the high heavens: I’m no hollow-backed girl!
I have to say, my opinions on the cannibalistic plagiarism of my art notwithstanding: that Stefani woman fucking nailed the spirit of the piece. Even throwing in all that bloody fucking nonsense about bananas.
What if you poked me in the chest and your finger broke through like you were cracking into a rotted plank of wood and dust came out and I just crumpled into nothing and my spores got into your nose
I would not hang out with you again that’s for sure!
I’m just reading the evaluation my pastoral internship supervisor wrote about my time with her church (I was there for nine months) and I love that she included this! I WOULD HAVE MADE IT WORK!
