“Look, knock it off for a second,” she had said, bringing an abrupt halt to the proceedings to impart a valuable bit of instruction. “When you kiss like you’re about to fuck, the kiss becomes secondary, a mere warm-up act. Concentrate on the kiss, and the fuck will take care of itself.” The advice, which he had put into practice long before coming to truly understand it in the intervening decades between that night and now, had proven instrumental in his life’s work, the achievements of which were to be finally recognized by an authorized governing body today.
His thoughts turned to her increasingly often of late, this worldly woman who had declined to give him her last name years ago. The sweetness of those memories was undercut by the knowledge that she was very likely dead now, or perhaps worse still to imagine, unrecognizable: a frail, decrepit husk of her former beauty and wisdom. In her arms he had found occasional respite from the horrors he saw daily while bravely defending Idaho from foreign invaders as a member of the National Guard. Among other things, she had taught him of the cumulative value in sweating the small stuff.
A young man’s face appeared in a crack in his door, reminding him that the ceremony was to begin in five minutes, and he acknowledged this with a nod and a warm smile. His heart swelled with pride as he made one last adjustment in the mirror to his tie, and nearly allowed himself to speak the words to the reflection: “Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I’m Reginald Syrjäniemi, MILF Huntsman, Master Class.”
flarn flarn filth 