Daddy, isn’t Orange County too low-end for you and your ‘Old Money’ 💰 ?
Also gefragt die Boten-Daughter.
Jawohl 👍 meiner Gutes Fräulein!
Ich hatte gesägt
I am a quadrillionaire. I skipped trillionare because only low-life, shit-covered anuses are mere trillionaires.
Ich also gesagt auf die Böten-Tochter.
You have that Knights Templar Illuminati money 💰. I’m hip to it.
Also sprach die Böten-Tochter.
I love how they have a store directory and it’s indecipherable. Then the anuses who work at the mall don’t know where other stores are. I mean you work there… WTF? I know every f@&king store in a six mile radius and I don’t work at any of them.
DECEMBER 18, YEAR OF THE RISEN CHRIST TWO-THOUSAND AND SIXTEEN IN THE FREE AND ACCPETED COMMONWEALTH OF PENNSYLVANIA, ANCIENT COUNTY OF FAYETTE AND VILLAGE OF NORTH MARKLEYSBURG, ESTATE OF THE GRAND COUNT BARON VON BOTEN-DADDY
The Butler answered the enormous Bronze Door at Botendaddy Manor Estates.
As the doors slowly creaked open, a blast of cold wintry air poured into the ancient grand foyer. A lone figure in a greatcoat stood on the portico. His hat was covered in ice.
“I am inspector Scheissekopf!”
“How do you do sir.” Inquired James, bowing so low that his moustache swept the floor.
“I have been summoned here to investigate a crime. I am here on behalf of the authorities of the Sherriffe of the County of Fayette in the Free and Accepted Ancient Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, one of the fifty severable, separate but United States of America.”
“Please enter sir, I shall take your coat and hat if you so desire.”
“Quite!” Grunted the inspector.
A beautiful and elegant young lady, attired in a magnificent evening gown. It was the mysterious, raven-haired Boten-Daughter.
“May I have a word with the Master of the house, Mademoiselle?”
“Your name, Sir?” She said giving a slight curtsey. The inspector bowed low and kissed her gloved hand.
“I am Herr Inspektor Jürgen Scheissekopf, may I be so untoward as to inquire your relationship to the Master of this house, Herr von Botendaddy?”
“He is my father, Herr Inspektor. Please, I am being a poor hostess. Follow me to the parlor, we have tea and freshly-baked Beetus.”
The delicious smell of finely-baked pastries permeated the enormous mansion. The Boten-daughter clapped her hands and the chef came out personally with a large tray and a maid came out with a full tea set. The Boten-daughter poured tea for the Inspektor. Then she raised the tray held by the Baker and offered the inspector of the still steaming hot baked Beetus-treats. A large, red-faced man, he smilingly obliged. The Boten-daughter clapped her hands and the baker and servants retreated.
“Are you. my dear, the mistress of this house?”
“Yes, since mother passed I take care of the Estate. By the way, I have summoned father, he is with all of our guests in the great dining hall, where the unfortunate incident took place at precisely 9:15 Prime Meridian of the Clock.”
“You understand that my job requires me to ask certain questions that might be considered unseemly if asked by anyone else. Each witness will have to meet me in this parlor separately so I may ask them the pertinent questions. May I inquire first what happened this evening in your estimation, Mademoiselle?”
The Boten-Daughter’s Story
“It was a magnificent dinner party. All of the members of the ancient Writer’s Workshop from the University were invited. At the end of the year, the Botendaddy invites all of them here to the estate. I have been planning and supervising the event as long as I was old enough to remember. Before me it was mother. She was a beautiful woman you know.”
“I remember the Boten-mommy, your dear mother, Annabel Lee. She was quite elegant, the mistress of all Somerset and Fayette County Society from Fallingwater to Olde Uniontowne. She was always very kind to me and to our bureau, which is why this unpleasantness is difficult to have to investigate, such a matter at the estate of a family, may I say so generous? to our… department?… Naturally these considerations of such extreme wealth of a beloved donor family will not interfere in any impartial investigation?” The inspector winked as he sipped the exquisite tea approvingly.
“Naturally.” Whispered the Boten-daughter. You must perform your duties and nothing will affect our staggeringly enormous annual donation to the policemen’s benevolent fund and retirement home.”
A huge portrait of Annabel Lee on the wall had eyes that seemed to follow the Inspektor.
“At any rate, they were all there. I assume you are not acquainted with any of them so I will attempt to describe them all starting with the unfortunate victim. You know there has been an odd winter snowstorm with lightning. The lights went out and she was found dead, murdered, stabbed to death.” We were all in the room when the lights went out with the doors of the great room shut. When the lights came back on she was dead.”
“Well, my dear, start with her, the victim, that is.”
“Ah, yes, she is known as the NCL or No-one cares lady. She is from a rival writer’s workshop and a rival running club. She is known for being caustic, rude and unpleasant. No-one cared for her. As a matter of fact they hated her. Any one of them could have been the killer.”
“Even you, my sweet?”
“You’re the expert, you tell me.” Retorted the stately Boten-daughter with a wink.
The inspector grabbed a third piece of pastry-Beetus.
Yes, my dear, I always get my man… always.”
“Herr Inspektor, shall I introduce you to the next guest?”
“It’s may I.”
“Don’t ever dare correct me!” Snapped the Boten-daughter. She disappeared, then presented herself with an attractive yet deranged young woman.
The Voat Fat People Hate Verified Shitlady’s Story
“May I present Mademoiselle A. Also know as the Voat Fat People Hate Verified Shitlady.”
The Voat FPHVSL gave the inspector a look of disgust. “Deathfat!” She shrieked. May Lord Beetus strike you dead!”
“The pleasure is all mine Dear Mlle. A. Please be seated.”
The VFPHVSL sat uncomfortably in the 19th century fauteuil.
“So what are you? Some kind of Obeast Copper? A shitty flatfoot Lardvaark?”
“Tell me what transpired this evening.”
“OK. It breaks down like this. Botendaddy is a bloated fatty. I agreed to come out here just to see the place. Of course he’s serving Beetus everywhere. I expected the hamplanets from the Writer’s Workshop but not that screaming banshee Crisco-Demon No one Cares Lady. What a slobbering asswipe Carb-destroyer. So we eat our Beetus. They serve these Manatees dessert and the lights go out! Poof! The lights go on, the little ham is dead. Who cares, Lord Beetus would have taken her anyway.”
The Inspektor lit his pipe.
“Do you mind if I roak? It’s Icelandic Tobacco. So you didn’t care for the deceased?”
“Roak your shitty tobacco so you can die quicker, fatty. No I hated that fat c65t. She was a corpulent sow.”
“Did you hate her enough to kill her?”
“And deny Lord Beetus the honor? You diseased fat-logic, mayogender, mini-moon! Of course I didn’t kill that oversized twat. I’m too well-mannered and genteel.”
The Inspektor glanced at the Boten-daughter. She rolled her eyes at the VFPHVSL and escorted her back to the great room. The VFPHVSL looked at the Boten-daughter and was going to hurl simmering fat Hate at her when the BD looked her square in the eye and shook her head no. “Ssshhhh.” The BD said with a finger on her own lips.
La historia de Ramon
The Inspektor took another Beetus-pastry and the BD returned with another guest. It was Ramon! Gay, *hot* muscular, tanned Argentine Ramon.
“I find you delicious!” Said Ramon. “A detective! That is muy muy… macho! Ah The smell of it!”
“You don’t like women too much, I gather.”
“Girls, Senor Inspectoro, are quite, how do say in the sexy Anglo-Idioma… icky?”
The inspector looked over his bifocals at Ramon.
“So where abouts are you from?”
“I am from Argentina! Would you like to interrogate me with torture? Ah the smell of it!”
“So Ramon, tell me what happened in there tonight?”
“Ah delicious murder most foul! A fabulous dinner party! Ballroom dancing! A string quartet. Everyone was there! All the members of the Writer’s Workshop! Even The Chasey Lady was invited!” It was a magnificent meal in seven courses. We played a parlor game. Then the lights went out. I heard a shriek! When the light returned she was dead! The No one Cares Lady was brutally murdered!”
The Inspektor took notes in a little brown, monogrammed, ancient leather carnet. He used a fountain pen with magnificent strokes. He took a long road off of his Austrian pipe, blowing smoke rings into Ramon’s visage.
“So Herr Ramon, what was your relationship with [Dramatic pause, crash of thunder], Baron Herr Doktor Doktor Friedrich Wilhelm Manfred von Botendaddy!”
Ramon rising dramatically from his chair. “I loved him! There, I said it! I loved him! In the most 18th Century, Romantic, Poetic, Literary way possible!”
“Of course you loved him. His wealth, his power, his unparalleled masculine beauty, his enormous Schweinstücker! Ah the smell of it! And you were jealous of the No-one Cares lady, you hated her and you wanted her dead so the marvelous Botendaddy could be all yours, and you killed her! Stabbing her again and again and again in an orgiastic bloodbath of murderous ecstasy, raising the knife and plunging it into her quivering defenseless pasty white flesh for your unrequited love! YOU KILLED HER! YOU SHITTY ARGENTINE SCHWEIN! CONFESS!”
He slapped Ramon in the face with his leather glove. Ramon wept uncontrollably like a little girl.
“Yes I admit it! I was madly in love with him! But no, I did not kill the shitty NCL. All the women in the writer’s workshop were in love with him.”
“Ok, very well.” He motioned to the dutiful Botendaddy-daughter who then led the weeping Ramon back to the parlor. At the parlor door, the Botendaddy answered. They whispered to each other suspiciously. What game was afoot? What conspiracy of this wicked family? These heirs apparent of the madness of the evil House Utonic! [Crash of thunder, flickering of lights]
The Stalker’s Story
The Botendaddy-daughter stood very straight and stern like a proper Wilhelmine Lady. She beckoned the stalker with a long elegant bejeweled finger. The stalker began shaking and then she urinated uncontrollably in her massive adult diaper. “I didn’t do it! I swear to god I didn’t do it. I just peed.”
She began sweating huge droplets of sweat. She followed the BD to the parlor.
Herr Inspektor rose, bowed very low and kissed the Stalker’s outstretched hand.
“Mademoiselle, I was not informed that you were such a lovely darling creature! Your perfume smells like the most aromatic scented cat urination!”
The stalker sat in the exquisite cloth and oak fauteuil.
“My dear, you look quite upset. I’m certain the evening has been most traumatic. I know this matter is somewhat indelicate, my I rely on facts and the application of rigid logical analysis. Tell me what transpired.”
The Stalker shifted uncomfortably.
“It was a wonderful affair. The Botendaddy is an excellent host. We had tea precisely at 4, then the gentlemen had a roak of fine Siberian Tobacco on the veranda. The dinner was wonderful, then parlor game or dancing as you desired.”
“My dear, did you see the one they call the NCL?”
“Yes, Herr Inspektor. She is a stupid little shit. I hate her.Shes been insulting us for years. Her racing team all have the same ‘faggy’ outfits.”
“Faggy…as in deliciously, flagrantly homosexualicious?”
“Jawohl! Herr Inspektor!”
“Did you speak with her this evening?”
“I did Meng Här.”
“Seineng Luxembourgeois ist sehr gütes, Meng schöenenges Frä!”
“I was Born in Luxembourg, you are correct. In my country, stupid people shut up about their stupid half-wit shit opinions <<no one cares about this, no one cares about that, blah, blah look at me!>>” Said the Stalker in a mocking tone. “So what if she’s dead, she was a stupid shit and I don’t care. Leave her for the shitty vultures.
“Were you jealous that she was invited by the Botendaddy to this affair?”
The stalker rose frantically standing behind the fauteuil and leaning on it with two hands. “Anyone would have killed her. I wish I had earlier, but no. I didn’t do it. And, I just peed on myself again. I must go change my huge adult diaper.”
“Thank you my sweet, you are quite charming. Here take my card.”
The stalker examined the card, smiled and curtseyed, then ran awkwardly to the bathroom.
The Inspektor sniffed the rancid, wafting malodor of the Stalker’s feminine stench with erotic, creepy old-man ecstasy.
The Botendaddy-daughter retired again returning with a fine Alaskan Mountain Coffee and new fresh Beetus cakes.
“The chef bakes all night as long as there are people in the house, Herr Inspektor. It is a treat for the Master. Meinem Vater, Herr Doktor Doktor Professore Don Botendaddy el Castellano.”
Back in the Parlor the Guests Nervously Await
“The rules of the game are clear.” Said the Botendaddy, standing magnificently in his greatcoat, hand behind his back, addressing all the guests.
“A murder most foul has been committed. Genteel society demands that the Inspektor be permitted to discharge his duties and find the shitty culprit so that he or she may be brought before the Court of Quarter Sessions, thereby fairly tried, convicted and then hanged by their wiry, shitty chicken neck until dead, dead, dead. No one may leave the room unescorted. Each of you in turn will be brought to Herr Inspektor.”
A tall, skinny, bespectacled man in a dinner jacket and faggy European turtleneck stood up.
“So, meinem delicioso Herr Doktor Doktor Baron von Botendaddy, we get to play your sexy parlor game while this shit-covered pale corpse rots like dead Beetus in a corner of the room. How Erozentrumischerischeren!”
“JaWohl! Herr Röchibäüld Sächse-Heütelier, but this is not a game, but a game to the death!”
“Ooh, so tasty, Meiner güteren Bötendäddy!”
“Swole’ bro’, you are nächste. Please accompany the Botendaddy-daughter, but do not dare touch her or Herr Inspektor will have two murders to investigate!” Said the Botendaddy.
The Swole’ Bro’s Story
The Botendaddy-daughter escorted the Swole Bro to the inspector. “So Boten-daughter you’re like tight do like work out?”
“Shut your idiot mouth or I’ll cut your heart out with a butter knife you imbecile.” Repsponded the BD demurely.”
The Inspektor rose to greet the Swole Bro.
“Have a seat young Herr, try some of this Streudel Beetus, e sehr delicioso!”
“No thanks sexy old Dude, but I’m on a cut.”
“So meng jüngeres Häär, tell me what transpired.”
“So like it was like a massive typical Botendaddy party 🎉 and I went to the hall of mirrors, I stripped down to my posing trunks and I was doing an imaginary pose-down when I heard a lady shriek. It was blood-curdling. I heard her shout: ‘No-one cares about your stupid knives 🍴!’.
“Knives, more than one Männer oder Fräu? Or more than one knife!
TO BE CONTINUED… RETURN TO THIS POST FOR ADDITIONAL PARAGRAPHS
Krausegallery is a fascinating gallery located in the Lower East Side of Manhattan on 149 Orchard Street South near Delancey Street. it has depth, encapsulating the nature and feel of the Manhattan brownstone itself, yet with bold clean interior lines, remarkable in their simplicity, so as not to drown the artwork in macabre, tasteless décor. The gallery blends in perfectly with the neighborhood. I highly recommend you visit. However, step quietly and lightly. For god’s sake don’t make a scene of yourself.
The current exhibition is by one Chris Dean of Detroit City, with a display of what is known as lenticular art, where there are optic layers viewed through a special lens that may depict different scenes depending on the lateral position of the viewer in relation to the artwork.
I popped my head in on the 20th of June in the early afternoon. I always attend at the very precise moment of the opening, before the gallery can be too contaminated by the sad 30-40 something, single Manhattan cat-women that Rochibauld so despises. yes, I asked my dear friend Rochibauld Sächse-Heûtélièr to join me for a visit to the Krausegallery and give me his critique of the exhibition. Here is his typically cynical, caustic and occasionally ja unglaublich cruel, satirical DDR Kritiker.
“Ja, it is a delicious gallery as it were, Mann can walk in right off the street. It exists as a Ground level entry. Also, I must point out to the so-called reader that it was daytime. I am Krank of walking into some pretentious gallery in some disappointingly re-purposed cliché warehouse on eine beschissen horizontal double-door work elevator to walk past impossible self-involved fashionista waifs in their jejeune black outfits at some evening soiree, whilst some foppish twit in a half-tuxedo hands you a champagne and some hideous hors-d’oeuvres and then rolls his eyes because you are a bear and lack a Schwimmerkörper.
So I wait to sign in. Yes, I detest waiting. I also detest listening – blah, blah, blah, will you please shut up for Himmels Willen! But, I digress. Some, I imagined, miserable, self-loathing, yet typically vain New York (by way of god knows where) girl who is probably a top lawyer or investment banker, single of course, reeking of shitty cats, small apartments and utter despairing loneliness. She clearly knew I was standing behind her, waiting to sign the guest book and to review some description of the Kunstausstellung. She slowly read some sort of leaflet, but instead of standing aside, she, whilst noting my presence, proceeded to delay as long as possible, making me languish in delicious, yet furious Angst-Qualen. I hated this icky Girl, she needed a muscular spanking from the stern, calloused hand of the bold, unyielding Kommander. I was forced to remain stoic due to my old Europa breeding. Finally, after interminable delays, and constantly looking back to ensure that I was adequately suffering, she deigned to step aside leaving a hideous scent of fermenting feline Katze-bauell movement.
I viewed each artwork, as it were, from many different perspectives and angles. Apparently, according to the artist, who I found quite personable and yes, very professional, almost may I say Hanoverian? The art was designed in vertical split-space, so that the height of the viewer did not affect the perception of the artwork, however distance allowed one to more clearly see the underlying thema in each of the works. Some refer to this I would call it eine modern psychologischen optischen tryptich. Wherein the tryptich becomes subsumed into the lenticular Kunstwerk. It could be considered, the Exhibition as a whole as a return to Op-Art and Pop-Art movement of the 1940er und der 1950er Jahren, with a hint of Warholianism, but without the pretension. I found some subtle traces of Lautrec Art Nouveau, softening the lines of some of the works, with a dash of Pollock due to a few vertical drips of paint? Although some may credit the sadly self-named ‘Freak-out’ genre, I found more a taste of impressionism with the nature and animal content than I would say that I discovered any morsel of a Peter Max.
I found all of the lenticular pieces in the upstairs gallery to be expertly-crafted and composed, but I didn’t linger long enough to see all the meaning in many of them, other than some delectable homoerotischen Inhalt which of course is known when animal content is revealed in Rohrshach inkblots (aside from the obvious semi-nude male figures). Number 5 was tasty, with more than a dash of Ludwig Meidner. Ah Meidner! who passively writhed and groveled deliciously nude beneath the apocalyptic, mind-scape of violent, muscular Pickelhauber preußischen Generals. However Piece number 4 was utterly hideous. It looked like the ghastly disembodied female leg lamp from the trite ‘Christmas Story’ movie which only reminds me of the past horrors of my country’s darkest period. I’m glad that it apparently sold whilst I was there to some, I fancied, savage, lonely, female cat-companion. The absence of this terrifying piece will bring up the overall quality of the collection dramatically. I do like Dean’s commitment to his work, evident in the level of detail. There are no imperfections to be found.
The basement was a rather eclectic blend, but once again the starkness and cleanliness, yea minimalist? quality of the gallery allowed the viewer an honest appraisal of the art, for which the gallery owner must be commended. I was immediately struck by the derivative homage to Lichtenstein, but nonetheless transcendental in the clever application of colored dowel pieces to the surface of the canvas. Here, the dots from the comic-book newsprint style of the Lichtensteinischen Kunstwerk were actually made with the surface discs of the colored dowels, making the expressive effort of the artist of great consequence despite the obvious pastiche.
The explosive elephant piece was disturbing, yet lovable. However, my favorite piece in the basement, although I am at a loss to say how to hang it in a contemporary Manhattan apartment, was the somewhat out of place ‘Jordan Eagles’, true mystical op-art, aber meine geliebten Gott, I hope it was not made with human blood. Haven’t our sensibilities suffered enough?
At any rate, this is all I care to write for Botendaddy. He sickens me. He delights me. Botendaddy is a completely self-involved megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur, fixated at the pre-oedipal stage of psycho-sexual development with obvious homosexual panic and extreme transference and projection-reaction. I hate Botendaddy, I love Botendaddy.”
—Mit äußerster Demut, R.S.H.
If you would kindly permit me, your humble editor, my dear readers, to apologize for Rochibauld’s excess.