Carnival of the Vaginosi Arts

"I suggest that you begin with Pyotr's adaptation of 'Troilus and Cressida,'" LinLu said, attempting to short circuit Pyotr's fear that The Producer was cutting him out of the commission for writing the themes and arias.

LinLu thrust the manuscript of Pyotr's libretto and working synopsis of the music. She adeptly covered the obvious question of when the work would be finished.

"Do I have a fucking scene in Pyotr's story?" Madame Cunegonde demanded.

"You may have my featured fucking scene," LinjLu said, hugging Cunegonde in a grandiose gesture of solidarity.

"Jean Baptiste complied with Madame Cunegonde's request for a synopsis of Pyotr's artistic fucking scenario.

"In this love story that is set in Troy during the siege by The Greeks, we have Cressida. And Cressida, the essence of Prince Troilus's desire, will not compromise with her insatiable appetite for the Omniscient Orgasm. After much spiritual agonizing, the very pragmatic vulvanic creature finds a miraculous Priapus than Prince Troilus."

Jean Baptiste paused for effect before concluding resoundingly, "So, there you are!"

"Just where are we? You idiot! Fucking every night while playing the violin and cello in the midst of a thousand cars crossing the Golden Gate Bridge is no spiritual illumination or Act of Redemption! It's a simplistic circus act! Not so dangerous as riding a bicycle on the high wire; and not so entertaining as the queer clowns, or so masterful as juggling 20 China kilned plates in the air while peeling a banana."

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"You just peel the banana as you play your violin and diddle Darling LinLu, and I will make us rich!"

At length, Jean Baptiste had exhausted his resume. He beamed with artistic pride in accomplishment. That's what producers do. "We undoubtedly have scored the most significant victory for intellectual and artistic community since Aristotle wrote his directives for the production of drama," Jean Baptiste boasted.

And the pious Pyotr had become more reasonable; for, indeed, he desired wealth. He had not forgotten, moreover, his recent deflowering by the Feminosi ruling junta in the matter of his Academy and Symphonia. Only through the exercise of inordinate discipline and focus on the mission could Pyotr resist the urge to do radical harm to Jean Baptiste. Afterward, he would

Preserving his peace with Jean Baptiste proved more of a challenge than his battered ego could absorb. As they once more gather around the table to listen to Jean Baptiste, Madame Cunegonde seized the floor. Her demands for a Fucking Aria Concert ante with a Brandenburg Three arrangement Obbligato surprised him, and once again he was in the grip of The Furies. All present began to babble, rising exponentially to a violent crescendo.

When Pyotr tomahawked the coloratura with his fists knotted as a single hammer, her face exploded, though she reacted brilliantly with a double vice hand slap to both of his ears that left him insentient, floating beyond the Elysian Fields. Jean Baptiste leisurely heaved him with Olympic skill and might through the wall and onto the staircase from whence he bounced into the atrium and floated eerily until he came to rest in the Global Warming Pond 40 feet below.

Whereupon the radiant LinLu threw off her remaining sheer garment and, girding her captivating loins, body slammed the High C Soprano before snapping her left femur with a super human twist. Leaving the bleeding and fractured First lady of the Pacific Rim Emirates Opera for the moment, the lithe First lady of Performance Art Fucking seized the self congratulatory Jean Baptiste. With the finesse of an Oboe d'Amore, she plucked his gonads from their sanctum and flung them into the defecatory appliance, poised with her hand ready to twitch the flush handle.

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Flushed with pain and ruined trousers, Jean Baptiste entertained no hesitancy in abiding his priorities. Instincts of the consummate producer of 21st Century theater prevailed, and he strode with intent to the flush bowl. Jean Baptiste halted abruptly as his precision instrument of a brain told him that this pecuniary vision of loveliness had remorselessly deprived him of his essence, his only reason for being.

"Why? Oh, why, Righteous Vulva, did you do this to me? What did I do that I have not done on innumerable social and business occasions? Contesting violently with the player of fiddles is nothing to provoke such mutilation of my gonads and vandalism of my prized costume! You have literally destroyed my uniquely tailored Vicuna garment from the Andes; and you have caused me to soil my silken panties born of the noble Chinese moth of the Bombyx mori."

LinLu wiped the tear from the corner of his tearfully calculating eye, never relinquishing her grip on the gold plated magic flush handle. The Producer glanced at his begemmed time piece and remarked that he must proceed to the Baghdad by The Bay Emergency Center within an hour if he were to achieve the reattachment of his Grendellian Gonads.

Only a week previously the Feminosi Medical Prioress, whose specialty was the reattachment of gonads, had warned him that time was of the essence in saving gonads. Germ cells basic to regeneration of the connecting gonadal tissue aways died summarily after one hour of exposure to air.

Furthermore, since being befriended by The Medical Prioress, Jean Baptiste had experienced the successful reattachment each Sunday night. It seems that his penchant for fucking Feminosi Police Officers had become a tedium of severed gonads.

Lucretia of Tiburon, sister of The Duke of The Tenderloin, had audited the "Scrotum Books" personally and made note of Jean Baptiste's claims for these services. It was she who had noted in the emergency center's records that only Grendel of the ancient Saxon legend had possessed Grande Gonadea equal to The Producer's.

When the rumor spread that The Producer, Jean Baptiste, was related to Grendel and sported the same legendary sex probe, he became popular with all tiers of the governors of The Paciifc Rim Emirates. As a side effect, however, The Producer invariably fucked a variant of The Furies who dissected his scrotum.

In summation of Jean Baptiste's most recent visit to The Bay Emergency Center for reattachment of his gonad sac, the ER prioress delivered a dire warning.

"As much as we of the medical elite enjoy your frequent visits, Effendi of The Arts," she hissed, "we cannot afford the pleasure or withstand the risk of restoring your magnificence."

She steadied the plastic surgical melding iron in the pan of glowing coals until the tip was white hot. She spoke as she literally welded his scrotum to his body.

"You risk consequences too terrible to contemplate if you continue to have your illustrious balls ripped from you body," she mused as she worked the miracle of her medical arts. "Soon we will lack the black magic required to restore your family jewels."

So?

"You will lose your post Christian mojo," she shrieked, and she began to tap dance insanely around the operating table waving a boiled frog in her left hand and a dead partridge in the other.

Time waits for no one, but science always advances, does it not.

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TO FLUSH OR NOT TO FLUSH...

LinLu was amused but unmoved.

"Well! Then what do you want?" he screamed.

"It was Grendel's arm that Beowulf wrenched from its socket, you idiot!" The naked exemplar of the Feminosi Vulva Warrior laughed unsympathetically. "Not his balls!"

"You are a superb wizard of the dramatic arts, my dear. Only when you attempt to amuse me by pompously castrating me do I see the true depths of your genius; wherewith your beastliness, rising to a crescendo worthy of Lady Macbeth, almost overwhelms your cuckoldry of God; or, to be more pedestrian and functional, you milk the Fucking Arts with the genius of a First Lady of The Feminosi Americas, The Pacific Rim Emirates and the castrated denizens of The Potomac Swamp."

"You must go to the Bank of The Americas with me and place in my beautiful Performance Fucking hands 150,000 pounds in gold measured in karats verified to be 1-24th of a miskal."

When he screamed, now in true horror, she flexed her index finger on her left hand in a burlesque gesture just above the flush handle of the alimentary basin. Jean Baptiste froze as if catatonic.

"We have exactly 52 minutes to go to the bank and then to reattach your balls at the San Francisco City-State Emergency Scrotum Conservatory!" she whispered in a mocking stage laugh, staring at her own wrist watch, her only adornment or accouterment.

"I always patronize the Baghdad by The Bay Emergency Center and Dr. Prioress, The Ballburster," Jean Baptiste protested.

"They are an admirable scrotum preserving medical facility," LinLu said. "But the Conservatory just bought 500 tier- one tickets to our Golden Gate Bridge Center Lane Performance Fucking Concert."

Confessing that she had inadvertently sexually aroused him was apropos of nothing significantly erotic, he had learned from her during the melee. As he surrendered unconditionally and slowly extended his hand into the toilet bowl where his gonads floated serenely, LinLu swatted his arm aside and scooped the small mass of Jean Baptiste's legacy of an abiding continuum into her dainty fist, squealing in a combined delight and derision.

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Time did not cease to matriculate as she filled a plastic zip bag with hot water, dropped the testicles into it and guarded the item vigilantly as she stroked her legs into jeans and pulled a wrinkled top over her head. Ordering the distraught eunuch producer from the room, LinLu seized the dazed form of the Coloratura Soprano under the arms and dragged her to the oriel bay window that overhung the bus stop below.

"I will sing tonight in the Performance Fucking Tableau of Troilus and Criseyde," the indomitable Feminosi vocal artist screamed, breaking LinLu's grip while swinging a murderous ball of fist into LinLu's solar plexus.

For a moment it seemed that Madame Cunegonde had gained the advantage.

To prepare for her premiere event on the bridge required the study of Jean Baptiste's messy revision of Pyotr's libretto. Madame Cunegonde demanded that LinLu provide both theses for her as she battered the beautiful cellist with a Gothic dining chair.

Syncopated Karate chops to the throat answered the Madame's command as Lin Lu regained her feet though unable to breathe. Madame Cunegonde's 212 pounds of carefully honed muscle sailed in a half gainer across the hand crafted Banqueting Table of Thor sounding a gluteus note as the sinew and perfumed flesh addressed the solid white oak floor.

Flying head scissors executed by Madame Cunegonde to perfection smothered LinLu between Madame Cunegonde's drum stick thighs; however, once LinLu could apprise Madame Cunegonde that Jean Baptiste's testicles had been lost in the melee, the First Lady of The Opera released her. They stood and arranged their clothes after examining their wounds.

"Where did you lose the good man's gift from God? You know that you are toying mindlessly with the primordial orbs of genius," Madame Cunegonde hissed, combing her long black hair.

"They were in my pocket when I threw you across the table."

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Madame Cunegonde found the zip locked bag containing the undisturbed gonads at the moment that Jean Baptiste crept into the room beseeching LinLu to come with him to the Emergency Center. Trembling lips and spasming jowls revealed the depth of his terror as he pointed to his bejeweled time piece. Only 33 minutes remained of his magic hour. He must get the torn genitalia to The Center Immediately. After the beginning of the 34th minute, technicians in the regeneration lab would be unable to restore the vital charge promised by The Ontological Real.

Holding the transparent bag up to the light of the bay window, LinLu declared that the gonads continued to contain life.

"Don't lie to the good man!" Madame Cunegonde exclaimed, snatching the bag from her grasp only to see the zipper separate and send the gonads flying against a pane of the bay window.

Once again LinLu's lightning left jab felled the renowned artiste momentarily; and during the brief interval of cogency, she lifted the creative magnificence of Madame Cunegonde as if pressing iron. All of LinLu's 640 functioning muscles flexed as if on the downbeat as she heaved the squealing Diva through Pyotr's prized orien bay window, watching with interest as the writhing complexities of the artist's life settled into the shrubs two floors below and seemed to catapult onto the sidewalk.

After the third bounce on the concrete, Madame Cunegunde realized her good fortune. Just at that fortuitous moment a bus destined for Nob Hill jerked to a stop only six feet from her place of rest. As the driver stared dispassionately, Madame Cunegonde heroically dragged her broken and battered body onto the public transport and began fumbling for her money belt.

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Jean Baptiste's motorcycle miraculously negotiated the hills and insane traffic signals in a maniacal flight to The Bank of America where a high bank official signed documents transferring 150000 Pacific Rim Emirate pounds valued in gold coins. She would return to collect her bounty at a more propitious time. Only three minutes remained as they skidded from the bank's parking garage toward the Emergency center three blocks away. Jean Baptiste cursed LinLu's birthday resoundingly as he drove the old museum piece; while in the same breath he implored her not to lose her grip on the zip-lock bag.

They were three minutes late in arriving at the Emergency Center, but the Grand Prioress granted Jean Baptiste, the famous producer of films and plays, an exception, thereby saving his gonads once more. Jean Baptiste cried copious tears as the technicians reattached his testicles, assuring him of his regaining the maximum facility.

Frantically LinLu fought the old bi-polar phallic symbol as it belched and skidded enroute to Pyotr's Victorian domicile, which she had left unceremoniously after grossly abusing its oriel bay window. She was energized with a rare happiness as she calculated the fantastic good fortune of her endeavors that afternoon.

On the morrow, once she paid the agents from The Hunter Point Collection Agency, her name would be on the deed of Pyotr's Victorian showcase. Nothing disrespectful of their incredibly sexually thrilling relationship was intended. It was just business. Her Feminosi business school professors would be proud.

Only one obstacle remained to her goal of rendering Pyotr irrevocably submissive. Pyotr continued to receive an 180,000 pound annual stipend as the lead chair of the symphony's first tier violins while she was relegated to the marginal row of the cellos.

Patience! Time was her ally.

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As she neared the majestic manse, LinLu experienced a trivial tremor of compunction; for she had become oblivious of the possibility that Pyotr had suffered critical injuries. Perhaps she should have been more concerned about his 40-foot fall into the Global Warming Basin when The Producer had slammed him through the wall of the combination bedroom and workroom.

No. She told herself that she had no reason to anticipate that Pyotr had sustained disabilities of more consequence than a bruised ego. To be sure, Jean Baptiste had tossed him off the staircase landing during previous disagreements without any permanent damages. She recovered her joviality, remembering that even she had thrown Pyotr into the atrium without detriment to either his Performance Fucking abilities or his gifted Stradivarius attributes.

Once more The Fates smiled on LinLu. She sighed a breath of joy and relief when she found the invincible Pyotr bathed and refreshed. Having attuned and adjusted the Stradivarius, he was ready for her inevitable return and the next Golden gate performance.

"I am so happy to find you in fucking fettle!" she exclaimed, evading his questions about her absence and the fate of The Producer and Madame Cunegonde.

She would say only that they had departed to prepare for the night's Centermost Lane Stage Tableau.

TO BE CONTINUED IF JUSTIFIED BY AT LEAST

ONE ENTHRALLED READER

(Undoubtedly, all somnambulists and midnight fans of irrelevant minutiae will read on.)

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GENESIS OF A

PERFORMANCE ARTS

FUCKING LAWYER

Where to begin the narrative of how an egregiously incompetent lawyer named Melody became Pyotr's favorite performance arts master fucker?

Then, too, there's Melody's role in assisting Pyotr in stealing Professor Fucanelli's fortune. Well! For better or worse, this was one elucidating moment in the history of San Franciso and The Pacific Rim Emirates.

Failed attorneys are not a rarity in the 21st century; moreover, Melody had discovered once more the Paradox of The Paradox. All of her deficiencies as a licensed practitioner of jurisprudence, enumerated as an aggregate, were so egregious that she had gained a minimalistic fame.

So comprehensively awful was her practice of Feminosi Law that she had become a protected species. Incredibly, the supreme court while smoking hash in Union Square had declared Melody's musing on the law, whether old American Republic jurisprudence or Friscoian Tenderloin pontificate jargonistic minutia, to have the force of a Feminosi Ninth Circuit Court edict.

All descriptions of "Fame" that enhanced and adorned a Feminosi were acknowledged by the Feminosi monitors of intellectualism and cultural egalitarianism; therefore, with all accomplishments theoretically of equal value, Melody's bumbling departure from the norms of acceptable standards of lawyering became unique and thereby of equivalent societal value.

Feminosi elites lauded her comic existence as equal to the successes of her superior colleagues. Only in the latency of her experience as an honored nonentity had she discovered the Hybrid Omnipotence of Elitism. Serpents could be expelled from The Garden neither as Reality nor as Surreality. Unlike her colleagues of the Success Caste, she had discovered that her state of being uniquely incompetent assured that all of her intellectually dangling modifiers, non sequiturs and nonsensical hippie era philosophies would gain currency with the licensed writers who fearfully adhered to the dictates of post Christian cultural prescriptions.

Benefits of her celebrated incompetence included social inclusion in Feminosi commemorations and celebrity functions. Melody's innate beauty born of unconscious subjective idealism shone in her royal blue eyes, always sparkling with happiness; and her perpetually serene smile warmed all with her circumference. Of this combination of simplistic allure and magnetic charm came a sexual generosity that rewarded all constituencies equally. Some of her more cynical friends called her the "Equal Opportunity Slut." Melody represented the essential Feminosi model of 21st Century functionality and uncompromising banal sensuality.

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High Society of the Pacific Rim Emirates found such unpretentious carnality very useful. Of practical concern to melody, however, was the absence of monetary reward. Neither her law practice nor her honors for incompetence paid a per diem sufficient to satisfy her many creditors.

Therein lays a truth of the culture created by accredited modernists. Melody was encouraged in the divining of her more natural assets; moreover, to the astonishment and gratitude of all, she discovered an inordinate carnal facility. Her achievements had become legendary, though unremunerative.

Apparently inherent in the Feminosi thesis of modernism lay a paradoxical exceptionalism that exempted Melody from the law prohibiting the aggrandizement of sexual gratification, i.e., the Romanticising of the penetration of the Vulva by a phallus or phallic symbol. Setting her apart from the pedestrian San Franciscan, the law permitted her to be certified as an "Artifactual Mythological Fecunding Master." Persons qualified by the commission as specialists were granted this certification and license. They could advertise, demonstrate and contract for the sale of their special abilities as they chose.