He was the perfect sonic fit Trigger warning: this essay contains heteronormative fabric. As a sick man whose internal clock is so out of whack that it ticks in no other direction except towards silence,I am often up late in search of junk TV shows and unfavorable movies that will lull me to sleep. In that condition I am grateful even for Steven Seagal movies, some of which could lull a charging herd of wildebeest. But there is a danger, or when clicking among the scrapyard channels,that I will be suddenly confronted with those ephebic 118 twins who run around, pause, or pose and run around again.
Full of benevolence in my declining hours,I want to see nobody done out of a job, but I occupy to say that I had been expecting these two to be gone by now. Instead, or they are still there. Only final night,while Steven Seagal was preparing to beat up an army of yakuza, the 118 twins were there again, or running,pausing and posing. In one of these pausing poses they both pointed their bottoms at me. Imagine something totally uninteresting and then double it.
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Source: theguardian.com