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

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.

Blowing Kisses

So, I am sitting in the Amer***m Ar*s writing my first blog. Last night's beer buzz throbbing in my ears...I hope my friends from uni don't notice the fresh scratches on my shoulder. It's okay, I've adjusted my v-neck. It's easy this time of year; I'd probably be wearing a wooly top anyway. But the summer, god the summer, jesus the summer - covering my body in the sweltering heat. My lonely, quivering body craves the heat, the sunlight on my virgin flesh. Oh god, to be bathed in sunlight; the warm breast and saccharine kisses of my favourite would-be/could-be/will-be lover. Dare I confide in you, dear reader, who I speak of? J-Star be his name, navigator of my heart-ship be his position, captain be his rank. Oh who am I fooling, me with the green hair sweat-patch diverted eyes coy smile illustrious flirting shameless blowing kisses when your not looking god i hope you rip me a new asshole and fill it. xxxx