It was the middle of the longest lecture on apiculture Charles Mingus had ever sat through and he was beginning to regret giving up his bass, a jazz career overflowing with accolades, and all the money, women, and excitement that came with it. Jazz was a ruritania now that he was mired in the minutiae of “fixed-frame hives” and “smokers”.
In his disclosure of his wishes to the president of the North American Jazz Association for Jazz in America (NAJAJA) to pursue a life in beekeeping he expressed his desire for change. Mingus chuckled as he thought back to writing that going from jazz to bees would be “vicissitudinal to his spirit, his lifestyle, and his artistry.”
“What a magnificent douchebag I was,” thought Mingus, “to use an archaic version of the adjective form of ‘vicissitude’. I must have just thrown it in there because I’m a stupid cockface.”
Mingus contemplated further his life decisions and all the women he could have porked as the speaker droned on about the need to concatenate hive structures and the benefits of the new singular hive designs shaped like an upside-down uvula. Back then any woman would have jumped at the chance to be his penis holster: to have his purple-headed womb-ferret wriggling within their loins.
But now that he’d left jazz women looked at him with eyes full of arsenic.
“‘Irregardless’,” Mingus thought, “that’s a douchey word too. Why do I keep using such utterly pointless words? I am a cock.”
He cleared the phlegm from his throat and ruminated again on the career he abandoned because he worried about being the jazz bassist who had shark-jumped his craft.
At the front of the room slide after slide of oblong, squamous beehives filled the audience with glee. Mingus saw the mostly-male crowd was unaware of their vaginality: their eyes were moist at the sight of beehives! These men were children, really, better suited to playing tag and wiping their boogers on each other. They had no place in the real world. He could take it no longer.
“Listen up, cats, we’re talkin’ ’bout bees! Yeah, they make that sweet honey, but they don’t make the world spin. Let’s cool out on the bees a while, huh?”
His shibboleth was palpable. A crowd of angry, confused, and irritated faces drove him out of the room, and he was happy to go, revealing his callipygian side as he turned to leave. As he reached the door the room heard a malevolent borborygmus, and though Mingus knew it was coming it was so violent and explosive that when it burst from him he pronked.
Paper in the lecture room blew everywhere, and the cockbag at the podium was knocked over by the bowel-blowout. As if by prestidigitation Mingus produced a full upright bass from inside his vest and made his exit from beekeeping forever, leaving a room full of arsemongers and a life of tomfoolery behind.
He was barely out the door when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The shitcock from the lecture was forcibly turning Mingus to face him.
Now that Mingus and the speaker were face to face, Mingus could tell from the speaker’s comb-over and threadbare suit that he was a parsimonious little twat who had long ago nerfed himself through years of coddling and penissockery. He lived a life bereft of adventure.
Mingus bellowed, “Get you hands off of me! Your life is a monument to floccinaucinihilipilification, you shit-faced dildo-sandwich!”
“Why, I’ve never met anyone so ribald…”
“Ribald? I’m the living transubstantiation of emotion into music! Sometimes it gets a little raunchy, but that’s what life’s about. You’re too busy studying insects to notice you anal-riffic meat-wallet!”
“… S..sir,” said the speaker trembling with rage, “I’d thank you to leave our conference now.”
“No, I think it’s time for you to leave you little cock-carnageous bug-fucker!”
And with that Mingus defenestrated the speaker. He then stooped over, gathered up his bass, and free from the inanity of the beekeeping world went on to write a song about the silliness of antidisestablishmentarianism on the bus ride back to his condo, chuckling all the while at the day’s douchebaggery.
And what, bitches? - ACW
P.S. Felching.
