Monday, August 24, 2009

Bump'n uglies with Sen. Boxer

John J. Miller has given everyone a reason not to, well, shudder, think of the small but feisty Senator talking dirty to you.

Do you know that Senator Boxer (D-CA) writes books? Well, ahem, one is named A Time to Run. Senator Boxer; time to visit her again. I wonder how much research went into her book?
Sex scene #1. It's between people.

Greg's naked body was long and elegant, his embrace enveloped her utterly, and they meshed with ease and grace. He smelled good too, faintly and astringently of aftershave. He was clinging to her as if he'd never let her go, it was all so easy and right.

Sex scene #2. It's between people as well, and once again they "mesh."

The bed was huge and soft with a blue and white comforter. He didn't notice Jane taking her clothes off but suddenly she was naked: long legged, lithe, and bronzed. The sheets were cool, her body warm, her limbs strong and supple, and they meshed with his just as he remembered. "Oh Greg, dearheart," she whispered in his ear, "I've missed you so. Welcome home."

Sex scene #3. Okay, okay, it isn't really about sex. It's about lust. But it's extraordinarily weird. Kneecaps?

Her skirt was very short, and Josh found himself mesmerized by her perfectly shaped, silken legs with kneecaps that reminded him of golden apples — he couldn't remember having been captivated by knees before — and her lustrous thighs. He tore his eyes away from Bianca's legs with the utmost difficulty.

Sex scene #4. It's between horses. No kidding. No "meshing." (And the first sentence is side-splittingly ungrammatical.)

A ton of finely tuned muscle, hide glistening, the crest of his mane risen in full sexual display, and his neck curved in an exaggerated arch that reminded Greg of a horse he'd seen in an old tapestry in some castle in Europe Jane had dragged him to. The stallion approached, nostrils flared, hooves lifting with delicate precision, the wranglers hanging on grimly. ... The stallion rubbed his nose against the mare's neck and nuzzled her withers. She promptly bit him on the shoulder and, when he attempted to mount, instantly became a plunging devil of teeth and hooves. ... Greg clutched the rails with white knuckles, wondering, as these two fierce animals were coerced into the majestic coupling by at least six people, how foals ever got born in the wild.

So, after reading this, anyone pondering "nuzzl'n withers" anytime soon? As for "kneecaps like apples" - I would thing that a woman of a certain age would be more likely to think of "elbow skin like dried apricots" or sump'n.

No one can complain of my blogg'n hobby anymore. If a Senator can write this bad - so can I.

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