Fiesta, again

Vote? No!

Far, far too busy fending off Nigerian curses to hold a vote-o today, so I have, against my better judgement, allowed the hardly-mental-at-all-even-though-she's-got-a-big-sword Misty to choose tomorrow’s story for you.

Blame her.

Fiesta, again

Research subsequent to last Monday’s post on the porno-letter writing industry, just goes to confirm my long-held theory that anybody who has ever made a living from writing, has, at some desperate stage, accepted cold, hard cash in return for the production of filth.

For example:

"She gasp'd as she layde her eyes on mye thynge" : Chaucer, letter to "Wenches" magazine

"In the seventh civilisation, cross-eyed with lust, they wrote a fourth law of robotics": Asimov, opening paragraph of the unpublished "She, Robot"

“Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by that red hot divorcee who lives next door. She’s always giving me the eye, and I was certain that she’d go for a ‘hump’ in more ways than one”: Shakespeare, Richard III

“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
Her mimsy was all slither’d bare, and I couldn’t believe it when she suggested her best friend join in too!!!”: Lewis Carroll, Jabberwocky

"Suddenly Winston Smith began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down. His small but childish handwriting straggled up and down the page, shedding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops: 'Dear Fiesta, There's this girl at work called Julia whose been giving me the eye. I thought I had no chance but one day after the two minutes hate she...'": George Orwell, 1984

"And then, she done a poo": Anon

Q E blummin’ D, as they say, but not in the letters column of Knave.