Once upon a time there lived a most remarkable man. He was tall, lean and muscular, with a barrel chest and rippling biceps, and thick, lustrous, wavy hair that danced sensuously with the passing breeze, and a smile that made even perfectly straight men go a little weak in the knees.
But that wasn't what made him remarkable; it was the fact that he was a man who never did anything twice.
It was a fine evening day when after a hard day's toil, our remarkable protagonist decided to put his feet up on his porch and ring in the sunset with a cold beer.
'Hey there, handsome guy. Aren't you feeling lonely there having a beer all by yourself?' At this, our hero, as befitted his otherwordly perfection, smiled, despite the fact that he had heard the same thing a million times before. He looked over at the speaker - a comely young lass she was - but, even though our polite young whippersnapper would never admit it, nowhere near the top ten percentile of his prize collection of hitters-on.
'Hey! How's it going?'
'I'm great! But, surely you couldn't refuse some company?', the woman smiled in the most coquettish way she could.
At this seemingly innocuous statement, something within the man changed. His face began a rapid transformation through the colours of the spectrum, beginning with a virulent red and proceeding all the way to a poisonous puce. At same point, he got up, as if under a spell, walked over to the outer wall of his luxurious cottage and began to rub himself vigorously against it, eyes fierce with determination, as if trying to cut through brick with sheer will power.
Perplexed, but still hopelessly in love, the woman asked, 'Er, what are you doing?'
'I.. am.. trying.. to.. fuse with the wall, of course,' the answer comes back through gritted teeth.
'Go away!'
And so she did, the poor, comely, now very frightened lass.
On a different, perhaps even finer autumn day, with fire-red leaves falling their stately fall all around him, our remarkable hero began his daily jog uphill.
'Hey there, handsome man. Wouldn't something as dull as running be greatly improved with some company?'
'Sure, feel free to join me!', our Greek God replied without even a second glance at the questioner.
Momentarily, a vision of perfection drifted into view. With a figure wars could be waged over, hair dark and lustrous like black gold and a sinuous motion that demanded attention, if not complete hypnosis, our questioner jogged a little ahead, turning back and smiling expectanctly. Our spectacularly fair hero would never objectify women, but she was definitely an eleven on ten.
'Thanks, but are you sure you can keep up?'
'I'll try!', our impossibly perfect man responded humbly. He would never admit this, but he could probably lap the hill track four times before the seductive wench could do it once.
'What, aren't you going to retort?', the Cleopatra-esque beauty prompted flirtatiously.
To her utter shock though, at this statement, our man suddenly stopped and fell to the ground, as if struck by a sudden bout of cramp. With his face clenched in agony, he paused briefly, as if drawing strength from the heavens. He pulled out a packet of tortillas from his running shorts and proceeded to eat them slowly and carefully, completely oblivious to the world.
'Er, did I say something wrong? Aren't you going to jog anymore?'
'I cannot give you what you want. I am a man who never does anything twice! Do you understand? I can only do things, never do them again. Do you understand? I can never do what you want!', our normally unruffled hero thundered in rage.
Showing impressive self-control, perhaps driven only by lust, but impressive nonetheless, our resident Apsara mustered, 'Alright, but what does that have to do with tortillas?'
'Do you still not understand? I can only do. I can never re.. re.. redo!', the words trickled out unwillingly.
'So I can never re-tort, only tort. Tortillas are little torts, so that's all I can do.'
'I can never re-fuse, only fuse.'
'DO YOU UNDERSTAND NOW?'
Our fantastic heroine's charms weren't limited to the realm of the physical; she was possessed of a fine sense of sadism, like any good callipygian temptress.
'So I'm not going to get any re-spect from you then?'
If it were possible to tie up a face in knots, that was what happened to our hero. 'I don't have my spectre! I left it at home. I'm so sorry!'
'And I'm not going to get any re-spite from your whining, either.'
'I DON'T WHINE, YOU SADISTIC SPAWN OF A THREE LEGGED DONKEY THAT WAS RAPED BY A TOOTHLESS MADMAN BORN OUT OF WEDLOCK IN A SMELLY DITCH WHERE EVEN PLANTS DON'T GROW!'
'Ah, that's spite, is it?'
'Yes.', our remarkable protagonist averred, now suddenly calm again and possessed of a benign smile that could annoy saints.
'So what do you do at night? I'm sure you can't rest at all.'
'On Mondays and Wednesdays, I walk on half the street; on Tuesdays and Thursdays I am half a saint, and on weekends I'm a striker for my local football team half the time.
'Wait, are you saying you don't rest, but you St.?' Our hero nodded glumly at this.
'Man, you're remarkable you know that? You're remarkable!' the anthropomorphic jogging vision of perfection grinned a tinkly laugh that felt like being showered with diamonds and caressed by the softest velvet at the same time.
'I'm not what you say, I'm just..', at this point he paused to pull out a marker pen from his cavernous running shorts and perform what could only be described as a child's scrawl on his flawless visage.
'... Markable.'
But that wasn't what made him remarkable; it was the fact that he was a man who never did anything twice.
It was a fine evening day when after a hard day's toil, our remarkable protagonist decided to put his feet up on his porch and ring in the sunset with a cold beer.
'Hey there, handsome guy. Aren't you feeling lonely there having a beer all by yourself?' At this, our hero, as befitted his otherwordly perfection, smiled, despite the fact that he had heard the same thing a million times before. He looked over at the speaker - a comely young lass she was - but, even though our polite young whippersnapper would never admit it, nowhere near the top ten percentile of his prize collection of hitters-on.
'Hey! How's it going?'
'I'm great! But, surely you couldn't refuse some company?', the woman smiled in the most coquettish way she could.
At this seemingly innocuous statement, something within the man changed. His face began a rapid transformation through the colours of the spectrum, beginning with a virulent red and proceeding all the way to a poisonous puce. At same point, he got up, as if under a spell, walked over to the outer wall of his luxurious cottage and began to rub himself vigorously against it, eyes fierce with determination, as if trying to cut through brick with sheer will power.
Perplexed, but still hopelessly in love, the woman asked, 'Er, what are you doing?'
'I.. am.. trying.. to.. fuse with the wall, of course,' the answer comes back through gritted teeth.
'Go away!'
And so she did, the poor, comely, now very frightened lass.
On a different, perhaps even finer autumn day, with fire-red leaves falling their stately fall all around him, our remarkable hero began his daily jog uphill.
'Hey there, handsome man. Wouldn't something as dull as running be greatly improved with some company?'
'Sure, feel free to join me!', our Greek God replied without even a second glance at the questioner.
Momentarily, a vision of perfection drifted into view. With a figure wars could be waged over, hair dark and lustrous like black gold and a sinuous motion that demanded attention, if not complete hypnosis, our questioner jogged a little ahead, turning back and smiling expectanctly. Our spectacularly fair hero would never objectify women, but she was definitely an eleven on ten.
'Thanks, but are you sure you can keep up?'
'I'll try!', our impossibly perfect man responded humbly. He would never admit this, but he could probably lap the hill track four times before the seductive wench could do it once.
'What, aren't you going to retort?', the Cleopatra-esque beauty prompted flirtatiously.
To her utter shock though, at this statement, our man suddenly stopped and fell to the ground, as if struck by a sudden bout of cramp. With his face clenched in agony, he paused briefly, as if drawing strength from the heavens. He pulled out a packet of tortillas from his running shorts and proceeded to eat them slowly and carefully, completely oblivious to the world.
'Er, did I say something wrong? Aren't you going to jog anymore?'
'I cannot give you what you want. I am a man who never does anything twice! Do you understand? I can only do things, never do them again. Do you understand? I can never do what you want!', our normally unruffled hero thundered in rage.
Showing impressive self-control, perhaps driven only by lust, but impressive nonetheless, our resident Apsara mustered, 'Alright, but what does that have to do with tortillas?'
'Do you still not understand? I can only do. I can never re.. re.. redo!', the words trickled out unwillingly.
'So I can never re-tort, only tort. Tortillas are little torts, so that's all I can do.'
'I can never re-fuse, only fuse.'
'DO YOU UNDERSTAND NOW?'
Our fantastic heroine's charms weren't limited to the realm of the physical; she was possessed of a fine sense of sadism, like any good callipygian temptress.
'So I'm not going to get any re-spect from you then?'
If it were possible to tie up a face in knots, that was what happened to our hero. 'I don't have my spectre! I left it at home. I'm so sorry!'
'And I'm not going to get any re-spite from your whining, either.'
'I DON'T WHINE, YOU SADISTIC SPAWN OF A THREE LEGGED DONKEY THAT WAS RAPED BY A TOOTHLESS MADMAN BORN OUT OF WEDLOCK IN A SMELLY DITCH WHERE EVEN PLANTS DON'T GROW!'
'Ah, that's spite, is it?'
'Yes.', our remarkable protagonist averred, now suddenly calm again and possessed of a benign smile that could annoy saints.
'So what do you do at night? I'm sure you can't rest at all.'
'On Mondays and Wednesdays, I walk on half the street; on Tuesdays and Thursdays I am half a saint, and on weekends I'm a striker for my local football team half the time.
'Wait, are you saying you don't rest, but you St.?' Our hero nodded glumly at this.
'Man, you're remarkable you know that? You're remarkable!' the anthropomorphic jogging vision of perfection grinned a tinkly laugh that felt like being showered with diamonds and caressed by the softest velvet at the same time.
'I'm not what you say, I'm just..', at this point he paused to pull out a marker pen from his cavernous running shorts and perform what could only be described as a child's scrawl on his flawless visage.
'... Markable.'
