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There Is Nothing To Be seen

Tags: humor
Oscar Wilde said it best.

“After the first glass of absinthe you see things as you wish they were. After the second you see them as they are not. Finally you see things as they really are, and that is the most horrible thing in the world. I mean disassociated. Take a top hat. You think you see it as it really is. But you don’t because you associate it with other things and ideas. If you had never heard of one before, and suddenly saw it alone, you’d be frightened, or you’d laugh. That is the effect absinthe has, and that is why it drives men mad. Three nights I sat up all night drinking absinthe, and thinking that I was singularly clear-headed and sane. The waiter came in and began watering the sawdust. The most wonderful flowers, tulips, lilies and roses, sprang up, and made a garden in the cafe. “Don’t you see them?” I said to him. “Mais non, monsieur, il n’y a rien.” (No sir, there is nothing.)


I, Ot Toman, great uncle to Adagio Sabadicus, a known scallywag, sufferer of insomnia, and often over swill on prune juice-absinthe cocktail.

Those who have read me, will know that I an not prone to exaggeration... so with that I will begin, after a disclaimer. Every word printed below is the truth as I see it. If one lives long enough, there are two things that are for sure. One, you will get cataracts and two... your expiration date will expire.

My present residence, an ethical establishment of those needing looked after, as in assisted living (Near Dun Livin') housing. Being past winter in years and mind, so my family said, I qualified. I have all my faculties about me... I just don't at times where I put them.

This new address was precipitated by a lack in communication brought on by a purchase of a dozen strobe light bulbs of assorted colors and shapes and a lack of a dildo which I loaned to the pastor at The Rusty Halo Church.

Red... Stop me, I can't help it.

Green... Watch me.

Yellow... Be right back, someone is walking down the sideway.

Blue... Eh oh! I have been caught.

On all four and naked in front of an open window, I had screwed a green one into my buttocks. Hoping to attract the attention of the retired school teacher across the street. One has to remember that I have cataracts. Anyway, after doing so, I wet a finger tip and stuck it in a light socket while adjusting my antenna, aka penis. Everything went well until the strobe light awoke the frigging zoo and the elephants stampeded, trumpeting and rumbling down the street. I thought it Al Hirt until the swat team charged through my door. I have no need now for hemorrhoid surgery as the broken glass in my ass severed them of their peering port.

So here I am, going through a low point in my life. A cause prolonged with and unsatisfied sexual arousal and an aggravated condition, called blue balls or hyper extension, hypertension... it doesn't matter. My new girlfriend said it was just varicose veins on my balls, so now I wear support hose around my swollen testicles, held up by suspenders over my shoulders. In due course I was feeling better after a few days and decided to take up were I left off.

I have a thing for liverwurst sandwiches, especially while watching porn and masturbating. So I thought, why not combine them? Ain't nothing better except the genuine sausage. I slapped a quarter inch piece on a layer of rye bread slathered with mustard, then it dawned on me that I was wearing braces with little pictures of Barney dinosaur. In the process of removing the support hose and pair of suspenders, something snapped. Like out of a slingshot and a ricochet or two, my sandwich broke through the window and narrowly missed the delivery man who was about to knock on the neighbors door. I felt the urgency to spew forth my seed and a pickle or two but held back until the ruckus had died down.

One has to understand that I have been struggling with certain issues lately... cataracts, loss of hearing, scurvy and on occasion erectile compunction. I wasn't about to let the loss of a sandwich upset my moments of satisfaction. Next to liverwurst, wax paper is my second choice along with Celtic music on the stereo.

I reached for my CD and put it on as I reached for the wax paper in the drawer of the end table. I had no idea the sound was turned up and forgot all about the broken window. Next to laying my penis on top of the liverwurst, topped by the bread and jacking off with it, there ain't nothing better then with wax paper.

The entire neighborhood block was startled by loud sound effects of old steam engines as I stroked my cock with course sand paper. I took off three layers of skin but did get rid of the old age spots. DAMN these fucking cataracts!

DON'T use fly paper. I paid the price. It took two EMS technicians with a hammer and cold chisel to free me loose of the paper.


It had been several weeks ago, while visiting a local nursery, I happen to run into Dionaea (Dione) Muscipula, my now new girl friend. Although looking for blue fescue seeds for the home terrace I was immediately smitten by her. It was bloom at first sight and she being eighty six, I recommended the home to her.

"Ain't that were Ot Toman lives?"

As of this time, she thanks my name is Peter Piper Picked A Peck Of Pickled Peppers.

We did ask at the front desk if adjoining wombs were available. It had started with a cup of coffee and now she spreads her wiles about Near Dun Levin'. Being as my cataracts deter my vision... what I lack in sight is made up in conversation and occasional falsetto, or is that fellatio.

She, in her most provocative voice wanted to be fisted. I had thought I heard the word misted and obliged her with several spritz of prune juice which I had mistaken for water. She immediately broke wind and wilted the artificial seaweed in my reptilian aquarium then screamed, "OT! get your foot out of the soup tureen."

When I awoke the next morning, Dione was where I had left her the previous night, sitting in the corner chair of the bedroom. It appeared that she was devouring my shorts as I must have tossed them her way. This wasn't protocol so I took her over to Hurley's Car Wash and Tattoo Emporium.

Hurley (my best friend) was a medical school drop out in 1947 and now was Assistant Manager of Last Resort Car wash and was always featured as geriatric chamois and passenger side of the month employee. I thought it time for Hurley to look at her, seeing as he did have some medical schooling.

On reaching the car wash, Hurley did excuse himself from the passenger side of a BMW and with Dione in hand disappeared behind the giant automobile scrubbers. One 6'9 Polish refugee from WWII and a 6'7 inch Huron who spoke Swedish. Moments later, returning after I had my skunk-too and Yosemite Sam touched up.

"Ot, she has a condition... you could say it is similar to lichen, or in layman's term, a vaginal itch."

I had no idea what Virgina had to do with her itch, but he did recommend a remedy that was used in cleaning spark plugs of corrosion on a 1954 Studebaker... Colgate Toothpaste with peroxide. 
"She ate my frigging shorts, Hurley. I was in the middle of a good dream, that's not natural is it?"

"But she is a Venus fly trap!"

"That doesn't give her an excuse for devouring my skivvies." 

Before leaving the car wash, Dione had ate the driver side whitewall scrubber and his sponge.


Coming from a family of great mimes, minds...whatever, I invented the perfect self-pleasurable tool. I often do this when chilling out with a prune juice-absinthe cocktail. It was three in the morning at the home and I waited... not hearing a thing (60% deaf), I tiptoed to the kitchen. In reality I was using my electric motorized walker, forgetting to unplug the 100 foot recharging cord. I knew what I was looking for, I just couldn't recollect what it looked like. On the way down the hall the cord was knocking over priceless statutes and large urns of ashes of passed-on residents. In the kitchen, I settled on an eggbeater, not knowing an eggbeater from a can of spiced peaches.

Once back in the room, I removed my sleeping gown... I don't know why, I hardly ever sleep. I went into my kitchenette and got what I believed to be butter and buttered my aging croissants. Applied and ready for blastoff I stuck the a fore mention apparatus up my anus.

The rotors slowly gained momentum and sped up as my fat ass lifted off the floor like a fucking helicopter... hovering as if a damn bird and humming. I crashed through my ceiling into old lady Eloise's overhead apartment... ass-in up. The bitch thinking my derrière a new end table with a mobile.

It seems as if I have started something with the eggbeater. Now half a dozen or so of the residents can be seen daily hovering up and down the hall and my cataracts will be removed next week. I sold the plant to some old fool on the third floor with dementia... apartment 318.

Hey! that's my place.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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