Man Wants to Question Parrot in Court

"During those years, there was a long feud between the 30-plus community and the rapidly growing teen community on the Palace, each having somewhat different ideas of what constituted acceptable behavior," continues Bumgardner. An enormous rift between the proto-dollers and the older users on the Palace was in the making. "One of the very earliest examples of a teenage 'uniform' occurring on the Palace was the night when we were invaded by a 'gang' all wearing parrots on their shoulders and swearing like sailors; this was in early November, 1995. I was visiting New York at the time for a seminar, and remember getting a frantic late night phone call about the 'invasion,' and the dire need to beef up the security features."


from Salon


If you have a parrot on your shoulder and you're swearing, you are swearing like a PIRATE. Fucking hyyaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

if kit smelled bad, he wouldn't be kit. he'd be someone else; that's how critical his odor is to his essential kitness. raffi would be subtly different, a bit less savory perhaps, but essentially raffi. ryan too.

kit's entire ethos appears to revolve around smelling good at all times--perhaps he doesn't think of it like this, perhaps he thinks about justice and equality and intelligence as his founding principles, but I believe they're all just somewhat interesting monkey haberdashery placed built around the cornerstone of pleasing odor.

for what is his hairstyle except an ever changing aerodynamic device intended to waft the volatile particles recently departed from his body in slightly varying ways (to prohibit boredom)? what is his clothing except an advertisement to the world that this is the kind of man that smells damn good (to encourage encroachment)?

when i met his girlfriend for the first time, the first thing that popped into my head was "there is a woman who would only date a man who smells extremely enticing." her giant, flared nostrils were calloused from frequent use. a nasal piercing accentuated the effect of the nostrils--it cried out, demanding that the fantastic attention bestowed upon the nose by its owner be matched by all who met her. Her mole-like eyes squinted out from behind glasses, glasses that loomed, occupying a full half of her face, contorting it into ridiculous funhouse shapes. as she snuffled her way about the room, laying hands on nigh all objects that brushed her hair or thighs, i felt a sense of foreboding. suddenly something caught her attention: a quick sniff of the air stiffened her spine and she turned, faced me, and said with crushing disdain "you purchased a stick of Old Spice on January 13, 2003."

She spoke no more to me after that, preferring to bury her proboscis, peircing and all, solidly within the pit of kit's arm. Lately I have suspected that perhaps kit's "girl" friend is more of a "mole" friend or "wolf" friend or any of that brand of hairy mammal more interested in the odors around them than the rich sights and sounds that compose the world of the average man. My suspicions have not been voiced to kit--perhaps I believe the implication that this "woman" is with him only for his glorious odor is offensive enough to cause him to duel me. Perhaps I fear my confronting him will only lead to tragedy. I have images at nights, images where I make my stand against this horror, and he reveals the truth: indeed she is some strange man-smellbeast hybrid, and he accepts that fact. Accepts it so much that when he removes his shirt and reveals his chest, there are tiny oily marsupial babies feeding from his eight nipples (two rows of four, each producing enough milk to feed a single smellbeast pre-infant).

I think that image may keep me quiet.