Official Rankings

The following has been approved by the Committee for the Judgment of Most Probable Intercourse:

STYLISH CAMP
1. Hip-bo
2. Tits & Ass
3. Ledger Hair
4. Tardy Nationalist Asshole
5. Petunia
6. Style-less Tramp
7. Tony Blair
8. Generic Shithead
9. Die Tye Die

J-STAR
1. Die Tye Die
2. Tardy Nationalist Asshole
3. Tits & Ass
4. Tony Blair
5. Style-less Tramp
6. Serial Killer
7. Generic Shithead
8. Those with Breasts, and Anyone Desirous of Such

UNLISTED: Actually Has A Career, Red Lips of Deaf

Hear Ye, Revelators

Dearest Die Tye Die,

I am profoundly sorry you had to deal with the cockroach lady in such a manner. She is indeed insidious. In fact just this afternoon Generic Shithead and I met her avatar at the Ruv', and it was then and there she attempted to cast us asunder. Of course, GS and I tried to be friendly, as all decent human beings would be toward the wanna-be bloggers of the world...but little did we realise that this was her way in. Friendliness is the agent of Satan. She attempted to convince us that you were not committed to RLLS, that you might betray the cause, that for you it was but a passing phase. Your most recent posting of course nullifies such an idiotic charge, but it was not necessary - for the Revelators never lose faith. And, now that we are aware of her dark motives and darker means, we can only be more resolute in our campaign against the taint of Petunia.

Curse on SMS! Curse on leprosy! And double curse and endless shame on those who would seek to tear us apart! For we are the Revelators!

Your Dedicated Anti-Wannabe-Blogger Warrior,

Style-less Tramp

Competition

"Do you like it when I caress your leg like that?" J-Star said, unequivocally.

"Well, I'm not sure yet...  Do you like it?" I replied, unexpectedly.

"Absolutely," spoke J-Star with his acid-tongue slithering about in that broad moist upper cavern, "it softens me.  Now I want to ask you about [DIE TYE DIE]."

"Oh, him!  Oh let's not dally with [DIE TYE DIE], he is but a worm in the swamp of our discarded desires.  He is the flower that always wanted to be, but never saw that he never was.  Oh, [J-Star], let us not discuss-"

"We must," he interrupted, sexily.  "You must understand, and take this with a grain of brown sugar.  He has become...my favourite."

The dagger poked into my backside like a girth loosened from a horse drinking from a clear fresh-water pond.  Waking from my stupor of disbelief, I felt as if I were forced to drink the tepid black filth dripping from some manly tap, silver but without reflection, as if the tap was too confident in itself, too strong, too...muscular.  I opened my eyes and there before me, J-Star smiled that beautiful, sanguine smile I have come to know so intimately well - and to his right, below his relaxed arm, there he was: DIE TYE DIE.  And he was smiling too, only his gaze was one of victory, of achievement - for he knew, he had climbed to No. 1.  

And then I woke.

And then I saw: in my hand an apple.  A Royal Gala apple, from South Africa.  With a bite into it, the shape of someone else's mouth.  And then, right there, I knew: my fight had begun.

J-Star must be mine.

I will climb up into the light of his soft illumination.  I will promise my body to his everlasting wisdom.  I will devote my being to the open plains of his chest, the grass being his unkempt yet lingering mess of hair.

J-Star will be mine.