The Origin of Mocha

In 1516, the crazed Arabian Al-Khufu of Mocha, Yemen 🇾🇪 bought coffee beans from the mad Ethiopian Ras-Sneferughu. The beans were delightful. Soon coffee houses grew all over the Ottoman (Pronounced Osman) Empire.

coffee beans
Photo by Lukas on

A young English Emissary named Lord Cockbaume brought the drink to Coventry. The drink made its way across the Atlantic to the Virginia Roanoake Colony, where a special variation of Arabic Coffee ☕️, 🐮 cow’s milk 🥛 and African Chocolate 🍫 was made. It was called Mocha Croatoan. The colony disappeared after the coffee beans ran out and ‘Croatoan’ was carved into a tree 🌲 by desperate Colonists.

black cattle on bed of yellow petaled flowers
Photo by Barbara webb on

The Indian (One guy representing all known Native American tribes) kept the secret of Mocha and it was passed to the Mohicans who were wiped out by the shitty Magua and the white devils.

large bison
Photo by Pixabay on

Mocha was later passed on to a Scottish soldier named macTaggerty who joined the American Revolution and he shared the drink with Benjamin Franklin (Pronounced ‘wa-wa’) then Franklin shared it with the founding fathers.

washington monument usa
Photo by Samad Ismayilov on

Years later, the recipe (Pronounced ress-sip-pee) was found in Franklin’s journals by a student 👨‍🎓 at Penn known as Schmuely ‘Skimmer’ Bergboim Cohenheimer Boingboomtschak in 1966.

In 1970, Schmuely moved to LA where he opened a coffee shop on Hollywood Boulevard called the “We’re not too Jewish Mocha Hut”

lighted hollywood signage during daytime
Photo by Pixabay on

Schmuely sold the shop and went into the movie business and the rest is history.


Review: ‘The Addicts’ by Gertrude Friedberg

Friedberg is almost lost to history. She was a mid 20th Century New York City playwright and author.

’The Addicts’ is a story eerily familiar to today’s readers.

The cautionary tale is about a family who love to read at the dinner table.

The habit crept up on the Tuppersons, a husband and wife who then passed it on to their children.

They would hide their habit if the grandparents were coming to dinner, but otherwise they always obsessively read at the dinner table.

Man in the Fictional Mode, Book 3 McDougal, Littell

Mrs. Tupperson thought they could break the habit if they accepted a dinner invitation from a friend, a Mrs. Ravell.

The family practiced by devouring a book of Ettiquette, also read at the table.

Their attempts to make conversation fell flat.The Ravells, who did not read at the table, but rather kept a phone there so Mr. Ravell could respond to business calls fell into a terrible, ugly argument.

The Tupperson’s conclusion? Not only is reading at the table not rude, it avoids nasty interpersonal conflict brought about by conversation.

So don’t yell at friends or family for being on the cellphone at the dinner table, it leads nowhere good.

Peace be the Botendaddy

Table of Contents McDougal Littel

‘The Addicts’

Man in the Fictional Mode, Book 3

Hannah Beate Haupt, editor

McDougal, Littell & Company

Evanston, IL 1970

Review: ‘The Bean Eaters’ by Gwendolyn Brooks

Shadows of an eclipse through the leaves.

“They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair.

Dinner is a casual affair.

Plane chipware on a plain and creaking wood,

Tin flatware.

Two who are mostly good.

Two who have lived their day,

but keep putting on their clothes

and putting things away….”

This is a part of Gwendolyn Brooks 1960 poem.

She became the poet Laureate of Illinois.

I don’t know much about her, but the fly on the wall observation of old age is riveting.

The poem gives us a keyhole view of how our own essential humanity has us going through the motions of living for the sheer joy of it and the joy of the company of a close one long after our most productive time has passed.

Peace be the Botendaddy

Gwendolyn Brooks, ‘The Bean Eaters’

from Man in the Poetic Mode, Vol. 1 at p. 58 McDougal, Littell publishers, Evanston, Illinois, 1971, Joy Zweigler, editor

Covfefe Explained

The Professor stood in front of the Writer’s Workshop.

“Today class we define the American word ‘Covfefe’ am. n.”

“It is an ancient word going back to the founding of our nation. It has deep, mysterious, masonic roots. It means: …”

The CEO raised her hand. “Professor, I believe it originated in the year 1830 as a bastardization of the Cherokee word ‘Ka-fa-fa-fi-ni-wa’ meaning:…”

Next was the Librarian. “No it comes from the days of the first railroad workers from  China. The Cantonese word was ‘Co-be-ba-no-chi-fa’ which means:…” She was interrupted by Big Chief Guyasuta.

“You are all wrong, it comes from Colonel Cove-fifillian of the Royal Colonial Erie Regiment in 1757. It means:…”

He was cut off by the Park Ranger. “‘Cove-FiFi’ was a huge drag queen in Cincinnati back in the 1950’s burlesque scene. It means:…”

“You don’t understand, said Ramon. It is a term from natural history coined by Charles Darwin on the Galapagos when he landed at Cove Fiphilanos, the term actually means:…”

The Voat Fat People Hate Verified Shitlady held up her palm to Ramon’s face. “It comes from the Caribbean Club Med scene: it’s when two guys and a girl…”

The Stalker cut her off just in time. Look, it’s a French word from the time of King Louis XIV: ‘Qu’aviez vous fous fais?’ It means:…”

“Enough. Said the Punker Model Writer Chick. It’s from a Tennessee Williams or Tennessee Tuxedo? (Penguin) play meaning ‘Catfish-Tosser'”

“Bottled Cold Brew?”

Peace be the Botendaddy

Movie Review: Soylent Green and the Great Dystopian Epics of the 1970’s

Soylent Green

Heston, Robinson.

“I love you Sol.”

“I love you Thorn.”

More gay subtext then ever seen before or since in a non-gay film.

Two dudes living together in harmony.

Gayest outfits ever seen. Like stonewall meets 1920’s Bolsciewieckz.

Gay cop outfits with little scarves.

Gay old dude with phony live in girlfriend.

Gayish Chuck Connors bodyguard.

Gay assassin.

Most icky, stinky girlies are known as ‘furniture ‘ that come with the apartments.

Call boxes but no cellphones. Everyone has hardline phones. Cops have old revolvers.

But books have all but disappeared, not due to computers but due to lack of paper.

The epic peaceful death scene of Thorn with Classical Music and the epic pictures a natural world that no longer existed because of macho, jingoistic, running dog, kapitalist, sex-crazed, patriarchal, racist, sexist, over populating polluters…

The people scooper scene.

The meal scene.

The conveyor belt scene.

The stairway scene.

People… see the f@&king film.

Anyone who is not blind or clinically mentally retarded doesn’t think this is a brilliant four star film? It still stands up in 2017.

“Soylent Green is People!”

“It’s a cookbook!”

Silent Running

Huey Dewey and Louie the duck- like robots and a psycho Bruce Dern. Evil sex-crazed, fascist kapitalists destroy the environment. The last vestiges of the environment are sent into space to be saved. (See Starlost – rather awesome series actually)

Andromeda Strain

Awesome early Crichton

“Caper One this is Vandal Decca.”

Muscular, sexist, homophobic, sex-crazed, patriarchal Kapitalists get bio weapons from outer space.

Smart Doctors and scientists save the universe.

A Clockwork Orange

“There was me that is Alex, and my three droogs, Pete, Georgie, Dim, .”

Evil, jingoistic, running-dog Kapitalists ruin the world by trying to put violent sociopaths in prison.

Awesome Russian used as slang. Tolchok, ultra-violence, razooka, devotchka.

The killing the filthy old Simka with the penis statue scene.

‘Come and get one in the yarbles!’

The Molokai Vellocet milkbar scene.

The ‘can you spare some cutter me brothers’ scene.

Billy Jack

Fake Indian, Special Forces, Kung Fu Master defends the Bolsciewieck freedom school against the sex-crazed, raping, patriarchal townies and Kapitalists.

“One Tin Soldier rides away!”

Logan’s Run

Some kind of future dystopia with Michael York.

Omega Man

Zombie Apocolypse caused by jingoistic, hegemonic, Kapitalists spreading disease. Heston dies again.


Kapitist running dog oppressive chauvinists destroy the world with evil robots. Awesome Yul Brynner role.


Kapitalists destroy the world of the future (see Idiocracy for reference)

Planet of the Apes

Revenge of the races repressed by the Kapitalist hegemonic slavemasters with even more racist ape metaphor and Heston dies.

Slaughterhouse Five

Brilliant adaptation of Vonnegut’s novel.

“Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time.

Peace be the Botendaddy

The Benefits of Fasting: Whatever happened to the Liter Leader?

I got a text from Hiroyuki.

We texted about fasting once a week, water only to remove toxins from the body and rest the pancreas. It may be beneficial to fast for 72 hours. Of course never ever fast without talking to your licensed physician first in case you have ‘Condishuns’ as the Voat FPHV Sh!tlady would say.

I told Hiro I would try it.

We texted about famous commercials that have disappeared.

Look at that Puppy!

Liter Leader was a famous PSA (Public Service Announcement) on American television. It’s literally disappeared from everywhere. Sure, you can see the Crying Indian, but where is:

  • The Liter Leader PSA!!! I found him!!! He tried to teach us the Communist Bolshevik, Gulag, Great Purge, Stalinistic, Pinko Metric System. But they don’t have his song. See Metric Marvels on Youtube also see generally e.g., at. al. etc., Metric Marvels on Wikipedia. I wrote to NBC and did a product request.
    • Speaking of Gulag (pronounced Goo-laaaaaaaaaaaaaag) “Who runs Bartertown?”
  • The ‘Did ya, did ya get the job?’ PSA where the brother-man got denied again by Jive-ass-Bobo-Whitey and has to tell his disappointed wife and sad baby.
  • The ‘the baby’s been eating paint chips off the wall… PSA’ As the lethargic woman holding the drooling sick baby is seemingly powerless to stop her baby from eating peeling paint chips off the Landlord Mr. Charlie-Ofay-Devil-man’s wall.

Regular Commericals:

  • ‘I flipped over Elmo’s Moscato.’

Modern commercials are shitty.

“Hazelnut Latte?”

Peace be the Botendaddy

Holiday Mystery: Murder Most Foul at Botendaddy Manor Estates


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

“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?”

Ramon’s Garden

“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.”

Botenhenge Winter Solstice

“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!



Remembering Jaco

I swore to do no more public literary reviews or reviews of the arts. I even was at Krause Gallery again in Manhattan this summer with Herr Rochibauld Sachse-Heutelier and Doctor Otsego, but I wrote no review.

One of my favorite memories of Bosnia is driving alone through the cool air, headed towards Sarajevo past Velez mountain playing my Weather Report™ CD.

Velez View
Velez Mountain, Mostar, Bosnia Photo by Botendaddy

My favorite tune was ‘Birdland’, but I’m now partial to Jaco’s rendering of Pee Wee Ellis’ ‘The Chicken’.

What a classic funky jazz piece.

It’s right up there with Herbie Hancock’s amazing ‘Chameleon’.

view from a Blackhawk over the Neretva River near Konjic, Bosnia
View from a Blackhawk over the Neretva River near Konjic, Bosnia

At any rate, driving alone windows down, feeling the cool air, packing my useless 9mm Beretta it was a good feeling.

Imagine spending 22 years waiting to do something and never getting to do it?

What if you ran for 22 years but were never allowed to enter a race?

What if you went to Law School or Med School or Engineering School and you never tried a case, treated a patient or built a bridge?

You get the picture.

So there I was, after hanging out in Luxembourg, Germany, France, Belgium, England, Ft. Riley, Ft. Sill, Ft. Drum, Ft. Benning, etc., but never did a damn thing in the operational environment.

Sure, I ended up in Iraq well after Bosnia, but what a feeling! To be there! To be doing it! Missions! Minefields! Confrontations! Idiots shooting at each other, but not at me. Dubrovnik! The old walled city! The Adriatic.

You got da Booosh!
You got da Booosh!

So there I was listening to the funky base of Jaco. And I remember.

I did pass my APFT and my two mile run on the trail recently cleared of landmines on Mostar Base, but that’s another story.

Peace be the Botendaddy


Although I talk about diet and exercise, I am only relating my experiences. Any sort of advice contained herein should be validated with your doctor and dietitian before undertaking or modifying any diet or exercise program. I am a mere layman.

The meadow

The stories depicted herein, and the mythical characters represented are not intended to represent any actual persons living or dead, if it appears so, it is entirely unintentional. Only the run times, run events and the weight loss/diet are true.

The machine

All stories and photos herein are copyright the Botendaddy, unless otherwise attributed. Some of the photos are owned by others and are credited herein. If anything is not properly credited, please advise and I will change it. Other items are in the public domain or otherwise released for public use. Some of the works are exclusively of the Botendaddy, so feel free to use them, just ask, I’ll never say no, unless it’s for something truly evil or grossly illegal.

A random caption

You must be over 18 years old to visit this site. If you are not, please leave immediately. This site deals with five very adult topics: dieting, running, incontinence, online h8t3r5 and human sexual relations; all of which require consultation of a physician. By continuing, you certify that you are over 18.

Peace be the Botendaddy

The Obscure and Mysterious Account of Mlle. Pym-Braithwaite-Smythe

It was in the City of New York, and the same-said County and State: “Excelsior!”, high above the teeming streets, that I was the only female attorney in the magnificent Law Offices of our hallowed, masculine, ancient, free and accepted Law firm of Carstairs, Synchon and Manderville. I found myself summoned to grovel low before the masculine, withered, gnarled and stately senior partners of said Firm to discuss serious matters of a private yet very important nature.

The exquisite dining room of the distinguished Law Firm

The Distinguished Firm

“It has been brought to our attention that the nubile free-spirited Mlle. C., daughter of one of our oldest and most prestigious and may I add wealthiest clients, a Monsieur C., known well to all of you, his daughter thus having been degraded and seduced by one not unknown to us. It is none other than one vile and depraved individual, I shudder at using the word gentleman, who is known by the name of ‘The Botendaddy’.

Unfortunately, scilicet scirelicet, it is due to his vast wealth and the macabre nature of his existence, that the local authorities are either unwilling, unable or otherwise ultra vires, to intervene. Ceteris paribus, I am called upon to ask that our senior female Solicitor, volunteer to undertake a perilous expedition by passenger train and then horse-drawn coach to his mysterious, mountaintop estate and in such manner of ruse, gather enough information to rescue the aforesaid maiden from his hideous clutches.

The senior barrister pointed to me and thus quoth he: “‘Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem! May I remind you of his awesome and terrible powers. Should you fall prey to his seduction, I must warn you that your feminine ‘capacity’ must be beyond enormous to accommodate his massive masculine prodigiousness: homo giganticus enormarum.”

I felt it my turn to assure the firm that as a liberated, modern, strong, suffragettistical woman, being 87.3% of a human being under the State Constitution and 88.4% of a great ape, I was up to the task, both with my wit and my physiological capabilities. I stood in front of the hallowed council, as if I were speaking before the bar.

Cicero denounces Cataline. (U.S. Public Domain)

“Distinguished gentleman of the firm, I am five foot ten inches tall, most grand for a member of the fairer sex, may I also add that prior to my unfortunate divorce, I gave birth to three children. I assure you that the physical ‘capacities’ of which you speak can accommodate any manner of masculine endeavor no matter how titanically prodigious on behalf of said anguis in herba.You gentlemen, being of the superior, hirsute, masculine gender and thus superior to me in every way, are free to examine me, individually or en masse and sample my person more closely, in private, by any means to your satisfaction to determine my feminine worthiness for this task.”

The Train

The gentlemen being thus satisfied with my feminine prowess, I engaged a sleeping car on a train from Pennsylvania station. I traveled west for several days through strange deep sylvan woodlands and across the thick Allegheny Mountains and into the savage Laurel Highlands where the brutal, muscular and hirsute beast was known to dwell.

The train crossing a dry gulch in the Allegheny Mountains. (U.S. Public Domain)

The journey was pleasant, but as we traveled westward, the towns became fewer, the habitation sparser and the woodland more dense.

By day, I observed many curious woodland creatures who appeared suspicious, yet unmoved by the approach of the giant machine. At night, through the drapes in my car, I could observe a lone wolf howling at the savage moon as if to announce our approach.

Arrival at Somerset

In the early morning hours, we arrived at the Somerset train station, where I disembarked. I was the only passenger to so alight and the station was deserted, yet perfectly clean and maintained in the highest order.

Somerset Borough, Pennsylvania Railroad Train Station. (U.S. Public Domain)

I summoned a coach to take me high atop the mountain to the abode of said wicked  Botendaddy. I inquired of the coachman if he knew of said Gentleman.

“Ah, yes Mum. I know him quite well. He is a gentleman of the highest order and most generous to the good people of this county. We only see him rarely though, and I pay me no mind to the comings and goings at his estate, if ye catch my meaning. Ye might be wise to turn back now, Mum, as ye appear to be a Lady of good family and fine breeding, if I may speak out of turn, Mum.”

I inquired further, but he closed his eyes, bowed low and escorted me into the coach.

The Coach to Botendaddy Manor Estates. (U.S. Public Domain)

The Botendaddy Manor Estates

After a long, inexorably deliberate climb up the mountain over many dangerous turns and switchbacks, the kindly old coachmen took my leave me at the gate.

A few of the servants of The Botendaddy mingled quietly, and did not look up, whilst they were ‘rhoakeing‘ an odd form of Tobacco herb from a strange pipe.

They seemed so distracted by this herb, that they seemed utterly disinterested at my approach.


“Lowly, servile, groveling, boy-servants!”

I called out to them, in the most polite respectful vernacular of the day. My bags had been deposited on the stone walkway by the coachman.

“Where is your lord of the Manor?’

The first boy came over and groveled like a peasant, bowing and scraping.

“I shall escort you to the butler, Mum, he is more fit to properly introduce ye to M’lord, it so being, M’Lady.”

I was escorted through the garden to the waiting foyer where the aged, distinguished Butler would be in attendance.

Enroute, I heard the ethereal hooting of savage, carnivorous owls that I could not see and I perceived the intermittent screech of Red-Tailed Hawks high overhead.

The massive, hoary trees seemed almost alive and as such, appeared to point their gnarled branches to herald my approach.

Upon my arrival at the foyer, the Butler, being impeccably attired, rose, then bowed low.

“Mlle. Pym-Braithwaite-Smythe, I shall have the groveling, peasant-servants fetch your baggage and the Maids shall make you a comfortable stay. I shall bring you to the tea room, as it is almost four in the afternoon and the Master always has tea served precisely at the stroke of four on the ancient clock.”

I was escorted through several magnificent rooms, each decorated with paintings in the romantic style of Géricault, depicting the long past heraldic, glorious Botendaddy ancestors, each in full, colorful regalia of the late heroic epoch.

Jean Louis Theodore Gericault, courtesy of

Every room was equally magnificent, with the finest silver and perfectly-preserved antiques, many from the 18th century.

At long last, we arrived at the tea room, where a most exquisitely beautiful young woman of about 18, greeted me warmly, holding both hands and peering into my eyes.

4:00 Tea with the The Boten-Daughter

“M’lle Pym-Braithwaite-Smythe, I am the Boten-daughter, the only child and devoted adopted daughter of my dear beloved Boten-daddy. I am, as fate may have it, the last of the noble and ancient, free and accepted House of Boten. Some day when I die, the House of Boten shall perish with me, I am afraid. But enough of this melancholy talk, it is a breach of courtesy go on so. It is my custom to meet guests more cheerfully after such a long passage. I am certain that as you are duly tired from your journey, you might care for a refreshing tasse of tea, my dear?”

The Boten-daughter waived off the lowly maids and she poured me a tea to my liking. It was of a rare East Indian vintage and utterly divine.

The Lovely Solicitor-ess, Mlle. Pym-Braithwaite-Smythe., Esquire

“You are very beautiful M’lle, your sepia-tinted-photo-gravure-daguerreotype does not do you justice. But beware, Mademoiselle, the Boten-daddy is quite taken with feminine beauty. He can be quite disarming… (Even though he is a savage beast!) she whispered.”

“You too are utterly charming, young Boten-Daughter. O’ Venus! Goddess of Beauty! Your spectacular loveliness is a marvel far surpassing any description of purest feminine charms that I received heretofore in the cable I received from this Estate.”

The Fetching Debutante, Lady Boten-Daughter Sepia-Daguerreotype

She closed her eyes and curtseyed low in response.

Haunting harpsichord fugues of the immortal Bach, meticulously played, could be heard from a distant room. It echoed eerily throughout the Estate.

“So, your father, he is quite the musician?” I inquired, sipping my tea.

The Boten-Mommy

“Yes my dear, he loved to play for my mother. It is the first time in years that I have heard him play. I believe that news of your arrival has cheered him greatly.” The Boten-Daughter said wistfully. She pointed with a dainty, milky-white, lace-covered hand up at a portrait of the Boten-Mommy on the wall.

I stood up to examine the painting closely.

“She was a most exquisite creature, your mother. I pale before her beauty.”

The painting was indeed mysterious and the eyes, the eyes! Seemed to stare back at me as if ALIVE!

“Thank you M’lle. Mother was a lovely and unique woman. At times, late at night, I stand by the ancient altar at the cliff’s edge and when the wind blows gently on the mountain, I believe that I can still hear her voice whispering to me as if the house itself is in mourning of her passing. But alas, it is some trick or artifice of my spirit, I suppose. But I digress, you know, my dear Mademoiselle, that the Botendaddy, a known physical-culturist is accustomed to go running at 5:30 sharp in the afternoon. I understand that you too enjoy the pastime of running? There are many excellent trails on the grounds of this massive Estate. Often, I run with my father, but I have been slothful of late and abandoned him to run alone, I fear.”

The Long Lost Love

“I brought my running gear, Miss Boten-Daughter, I anticipated that your dear father might like to run in the company of a lady, although I presume that he prefers your unsurpassed beauty above all others to accompany him on a long run.”

“While, I thank the Mademoiselle for her kind words, I must caution you my dear M’lle, that I have verified your 5k times, you are much faster than the Master. No matter what happens, do not ever run ahead of him. Not ever. If you should become separated from him on the mountain trails, it could become…perilous? And, it might be difficult to come to your assistance. I shall only advise you once, Mademoiselle, if you don’t think me appallingly rude for saying so.”

“No my dear, your cautious avertissement is nothing but the greatest kindness.”

I heeded her warning. I would pace the slow, hulking, muscular, hirsute,, fragrant Boten-daddy. At any rate, it would give me the chance to query him about the matter of Miss C. in the Socratic style, as was my wont.

We sipped the delicious tea and we consumed the sweet Scottish Biscuits in amiable silence.

The Botendaddy

After a fashion, I looked up with a start to see a magnificently frightening, green-glowing, muscular, hideous and terrifying, but nonetheless impeccably dressed in 19th century fashion, a hideous yet alluring Beast! It was the amazing, spectacular Botendaddy!

Some indescribable and most wicked delight came over me in a sudden feminine, estrogenic rush! the untoward and primitive quivering of my unspeakably aromatic and wicked, and ungodly, feminine parts, OH THE BOTENDADDY! OH MY HEAVENS THE BOTENDADDY, YES, YES, YES! I thought.

Modern 19th Century Hysteria Treatment

My mouth remained daintily closed, but my very soul erupted in feminine ecstasy! I could scarcely hide the rhythmic, hysterical, distaff contractions of my weak, utterly submissive, 19th-century fairer sex.

Could I do my duty to the firm? Or would I succumb to the vile, depraved, horrific magnificence of his effervescent masculinity and allow myself to be degraded and delectably defiled?

He kissed my hand in the old style of a proper gentleman, and the ecstatic sensation arose in me again with an explosive cascade of ecstasy.

My most intimate underclothes were now so be-sotted with the warm, liqueous effusion that it would appear to a casual observer, that I had lost all control of my urinary bladder in a most untoward fashion. I determined, to my horror, that I had in fact emptied my entire bladder in my uncontrolled dainty, feminine hysteria.

“Mademoiselle, you are truly a lovely creature. Welcome to my humble abode!” Said the Botendaddy, unaware of my disgraceful predicament.

Actual Photograph of the Botendaddy in his Lair

“I thank you for your most courteous invitation, my dear sir.”

“I would be most pleased, if I am not imposing upon you my most beautiful Mademoiselle, if you would do me the kind service of joining this ancient, withered, yet turgid Botendaddy on my afternoon constitutional trail run.”

He bowed so low that his long, magnificent crop of hair almost scraped the marble floor. Ah the Botendaddy! The smell of him! I felt faint.

The butler noticed my horrifically embarrassing situation and he politely inquired of the Botendaddy if the lady might draw a bath before the run and be thus refreshed.

I was escorted by one of the maids to a delightful chamber, where a warm bath was awaiting. She took my soiled clothes to the wash chamber, making not a mention of their soaking wet, warm, humiliating aromatic condition.

During my bath at precisely 4:20, I smelled a strange odor emanating from the first floor along with strange laughter, low-toned philosophizing and the sound of ravenous beasts consuming some sort of crunchilious food-stuffs.

After my bath, during which I had so manupulated my person to relieve myself of much of the hysteria, I changed into my running clothes, along with my most exquisite incontinence underwear, so that I might join the terrifying Beast on the 5:30 run.

The Four Mile Run

We met at the gate. The Beast was in his 19th Century Under-Armour™ running gear. His pocket watch had an elaborately engraved ‘App’ called ‘MapMyRun’®, that would track our sylvan journey through the wooded mountaintop.

“I must advise you my dear, as I am certain my impetuous daughter has already thus apprised you, not to become separated, as there can be many dangerous ‘fauna’ afoot, and the trails can become treacherous in the gloaming.”

“Certainly, as your humble guest, I offer my self to you utterly in any imaginable way to your liking and I shall obey your every word with utter submissiveness.”

“Shall we?”

And with a wave of his hand we crossed the massive estate on a carefully sanded path that lead to an ancient gate into the dark woods.

According to my ancient time-piece, the Botendaddy was running at about a 9:45 pace per mile, just as I had suspected, from reading the ancient parchment race record of his recent past performances.

The trail was wider than I expected and very well maintained. Tree-roots had been meticulously removed, rocks removed or covered with dirt, holes filled in and drainage was perfect.

Yet the forest was dark. The Botendaddy did not speak as he ran until late in the second mile, when I assumed that the beast had finally caught his breath. We barely met 20:58 at the two mile mark.

Ancient Colonial stone mile markers designated each milepost with the surveyed perfection of none other than Monsieur General Washington, himself.

Olde Stone Mile-Poste By BoringHistoryGuy – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0,

“Mademoiselle, would it most untoward of me to say that having your company at my estate brings me great joy? To have your intellectual conversation combined with your great beauty will make for a most enjoyable dinner this evening. You will of course join me in the parlor afterwards to listen to the Somerset String Quartet and sample some of our imported liqueur?”

How could I refuse? At any rate, I felt that it was my duty to submit to the Botendaddy and ensure that every desire, every vile lustful wish, every fantasy that I could pleasure him thusly was the very least I could do, both as a guest and as a Solicitor for the Firm.

All proper 19th Century ladies of good breeding were duty bound to so offer themselves up utterly in the most exquisitely degrading manner for the sake of their distinguished employers.

We ran deeper into the woods, it appeared that the Botendaddy wished to run a four-miler. His three mile time at 33:15 while not awful, it was nothing to cable New York about either.

The Ancient Stones

As we ran, I noticed that deep in the woods, were several macabre tombs, monuments of sorts, decorated with weeping angels and devout cherubs, peering skyward. Other, darker, more ominous monuments of earlier origin, were in the shape of strange altars, wicked pyramids and forgotten obelisks, so adorned with the most evil, shocking and unspeakable creatures.

Then an icy fear slowly gripped my mortal soul. Would the firm have delivered me as an unholy sacrifice just to satisfy a wealthy client? What if this sequence and strange arrangement of ancient and hoary stones stood to conjure the unspeakable old one! The shocking Yog Sothoth!

The last Mlle of the trail was close enough to the precipice that a long tumble would send an unsuspecting runner plummeting to their demise. As the trees opened, there was so revealed a breathtaking panorama of the valley below and the ancient village of Olde Uniontowne.

The Botendaddy picked up his pace as if to avoid the ignominious 47 minutes four miler, but in the end we arrived at a meadow where the fourth mile marker signified the end of our run. The Botendaddy appeared tired but invigorated as we checked our pocket-watches to reveal a time of 45:45.

The Botendaddy bowed low and took my hand. I curtsyed and blushed as his powerful, sweaty hand held my dainty virginal, petite hand. The moment that our hands touched caused me once again a burst of explosive hysteria, but this occasion I was prepared with the incontinence undergarment when I lost all physical control.

“I would be most pleased if you would join me for dinner tonight, promptly at 7:30. I thank you again for honoring me with this run. I so enjoyed your exquisite company, you are a ravishing beauty and sleek of form.”

“Oh Dear Sir Botendaddy, it was entirely my pleasure. I have not run in the company of a real man for quite some time. Just spindly weaklings with no backbone, pale and gaunt, lacking in manly, hirsute form and smelling of lavender. None reeked of hideous, delicious, masculine musk stench, like yourself, my dearest Sir.”

He held my hand as he led me back into the ancient vine-covered manse. Ah the smell of it! Like Horatio of heroic olden days, hideous and utterly repulsive of visage, but gentlemanly and muscular in his romantic, dominant maleness. Would I be ready for his full, masculine onslaught? I smiled smugly knowing that I could accommodate whatever lay ahead.

Edgar Degas, Femme dans son bain s’épongeant la jambe

Dinner in the Great Hall

After my bath, my presence was requested in the great dining hall. It was decorated with trophies of the hunt and heraldic portraits of heroes long dead and their fair maidens. Old dueling swords and crossed matchlocks adorned the space above the exquisite fireplace.

I was seated in the middle of the table across from an aged gentleman known as Herr Doktor Karl Calegari Fontenot Feldjäger.

The young lady of the manor sat at the far end of the table across from her father. I feared her judgment of me as a once-high lady of society, now scandalized by divorce and brought low by endless debauchery, caused by my incurable, lustful, feminine hysteria, which had not abated despite having three sons of age and my being a mature woman of four and forty, yet possessing a feminine form of body that was the envy of all New York.

The dinner was exquisite. Small breads with different sweet local butters, fresh engraves and a main course of pheasant, smoked goose, elk pâté and cured wild boar. Desert was a tantalizing selection of small cakes, fresh pie and crème brûlée in a brandy glaze. We chatted mostly about running as I sought to avoid more painful subjects.

“It is a pleasure to have feminine company,  my Dear Mademoiselle Pym. Since the loss of the great Lady of the manor, it is rare to have such divine company where I can discuss matters of concern to the fairer sex.” Said Lady Boten-Daughter, idly twirling her brûlée.

“What was she like?” I inquired. I felt if I could understand the Lady of the house, I could unravel the secrets of the great Botendaddy.

“I miss the moments. We would be outside together grooming the horses. Sometimes, we were short with one another as if we thought the three of us would be together forever. If not I had more time, but fate is cruel.” Said the Botendaddy, looking into the fireplace as if transfixed.

Pieter van Os, A groom tending the horses

“As we ran, I noticed many magnificent stones. Are they from Indian times or something more ancient.” Said I, trying to change the melancholy topic.

“Young Lady”, said the aged Doktor. “This Estate was once owned by a strange Frenchman back before <>. What you Americans call the French and Indian War. He was clearly mad. He believed that the grounds up here were the site of an ancient Iroquois religious site where the savage, muscular natives sacrificed living victims to the unspeakable old ones, the name cannot be spoken, lest he be thus conjured. It is said that rites were performed at each of the stones before heading to the hideous altar by the cliff. But my observation from examining the stones is that they at clearly Gallic in origin and I believe they were transported by the madman Jean-Luc Sevigny Ste. DeBlois des Lauriers from ancient worship site in the high Vosges. But others claim they are just statues from the grounds of the old house.” The professor sipped his brandy.

The Professor

“Fascinating history of these delectable, mysterious Laurel Highlands.” I said cheerily.

The Veranda at Cliff’s Edge

“Let us adjourn to the veranda for a rhoake of the local schmiee.” Offered the Botendaddy.

We proceeded to a massive dimly lit exterior portico that seemed to extend over a massive cool expanse of empty dark space.

The four of us, the good Herr Doktor, the delicate Boten-Daughter, myself and the deliciously, freakishly hideous Botendaddy.

We roaked the local Schmiee, we sipped brandy and we spoke of myriad lore of the ancient legends of the mysterious Laurel Highlands.

After a fashion, I noticed that the good Doktor had retired and the Boten-Daughter had take her leave, causing me to remain alone with the savage, sumptuously delectable beast.

The Revelation

“I know why you are here Mademoiselle Pym. We are not children, foolish ruses do not become us. You are here about the matter of Mademoiselle C. Whose recent utter, repeated, ravishment and self-imposed degradation has become a subject of interest to your firm. She is a woman of 20. Most women in our society are long since married with several children by that age.  She demanded that I introduce her to the dark, carnal arts, leaving her groveling in an utter state of gooey, slimy, sticky sloppiness in which she reveled at no end. Her nubile pelvis survived the pelvic-bone-stretching onslaught no worse for the wear. Her family should be thanking me for helping her cross the threshold of womanhood in such a complete and humiliating manner.”

We leaned over the veranda wall peering into the misty gloaming.

Silvestr Shchedrin – Веранда, обвитая виноградом

“Perhaps, Dear Sir, if I am not being too forward, a demonstration would be in order this evening, so I may validate your words and alleviate the concerns of my illustrious client?”

The Botendaddy paused and put his hand on his chin as if in contemplation.

“Mademoiselle. Meet me in my chambers at 10:30 P.M. sharp and please ensure that you are physiologically… prepared?”

Upon the Botendaddy’s invitation, I lost all control of my bladderious capabilities and I soaked my incontinence undergarment fully.

The Encounter with the Beast

At 10:30 P.M. sharp, I met the Botendaddy in the second floor hall and I accompanied the him to his chamber. The maids and butler were nowhere to be found. I began to hear the large organ in the main hall, once again playing Bach. Could it be the Boten-Daughter? Was it a sinister ruse to drown out the frightful sounds that were soon to emanate from the Botendaddy’s chamber.

I was overwhelmed with fear, trepidation, yea terror! Once again I lost all control of my bladder. yet I was also curiously aroused in may I say, dear readers, a most decadent manner? What sinister delights could possibly await in the Botendaddy’s Chamber of horrors? Was I ready for the task?

Hampton Court, Queen Mary’s State Bedchamber, by Richard Cattermole, 1816

I followed the Botendaddy into his chamber. I was overwhelmed with proper 19th century shame. Was I to succumb to the vile predations of the Botendaddy?

The rest is a whirlwind, but I shall describe the events which transpired to the degree that decorum allows. Before I knew it, both the Botendaddy and I were on the great bed in a state of undress.

After a fashion, it was my time to receive the Botendaddy. His masculine delight was so massive that I had to strain every feminine muscle and tendon, I had to focus entirely on receiving his enormity. I began to sweat on my forehead uncontrollably.

The massiveness passed slowly inside me as if I were giving birth to a baby Rhinoceros in reverse! When it became clear finally that the Botendaddy had fully entered my chamber of femininity, he was shocked that I was able to accomplish this massive feat. I was very proud that I had not let the firm down. I could actually feel the very bones in my pelvic region stretching and creaking.

All the while, the music from the giant organ played below, louder and louder. I realized that I had been screaming uncontrollably throughout the entire endeavor! Not a normal scream of terror, but an unholy scream as if I were being murdered from the inside out.

“O’ Venus! O’ Aphrodite! O’ ancient gods!”

I cried out as the Botendaddy had his way with me in every possible fashion. I continued to shriek and scream with utter disregard for decorum. The organ music was perfectly heightened to mask my primeval, carnal, hysterical sounds!

I dimly became aware of the passage of time throughout the night. By 3:00 A.M. I was completely exhausted. My body had been subjected to physical stresses that would have destroyed a lesser woman. Yet I persevered!

How proud was I of my accomplishment. I was fully saturated with the most vile of the Botendaddy’s reproductive fluids. Every crevice, my hair, my visage, my nostrils, my very bowels were sticky with the hideous, delicious, viscous matter. Ah the smell of it!

Eventually, the Botendaddy put me over his knee and began to spank me with his muscular, calloused hand. My fair, soft, milky-white cheeks absorbed ever more violent slaps with a thunderous crack!

“O’ virtue! O’ shame!”

I shouted. Ah the agony of my misconduct! The Botendaddy was forced to spank me until I cried, so that my horrific sins of feminine naughtiness could be expiated by pain and red welts. He then made me stand in the corner and apologize for being such a wicked girl and so violating the mores of our gilded age.

Ah how delectable the shame! O’ joy! I wallowed in the intensely tasty, sumptuous humiliation of my proper punishment. The Botendaddy then clapped his hands and I was escorted from the chamber by two of the maids. One of them carried my soiled clothing. The other wrapped my person in a monogrammed ladies bathrobe. Then I went back to my chamber and I fell into a deep sleep.