Monday, January 4, 2010

A Feaster Antagofeasts At A Party Thrown In His Honor

A troupe of minstrels held a listening party for their new CD, and I, being the new string-ed gourd player, was invited. I did not play on the album, but no matter: I was in the band. What fortune! I had done minimal labor but was handed panjandrum status nonetheless. Surely, I thought, my heightened social position would allow me to leverage my fame and traipse merrily to nymph wooing victory!

I arrived at the tavern and, as it was a foreign environment, was immediately filled with a blend of apprehension and wonderment. The strange establishment seemed like a secret den of the once-hip and frugal. What pleasures awaited me? What hazards lurked amidst the crowd? I entered gingerly and greeted my fellow minstrels.

After a tequila libation in salute of the band's loyal patrons, I embraced an old ally: the Rusty Nail. As our magic disk began its melodious rotation, I pertinaciously assumed prime feasting posture and readied myself to awaken the most stubborn and secret feastrels from their an-cient and laborious slumbers. 'Twas to be a cheerful but substantial errand, as I was in a strange and unfamiliar mead hall with feastrels of a more ag-ed variety, but my disquiet quickly subsided, as feastrels began bringing me their copies of the shiny sabot for my signatory mark! Drunk with power, I could not restrain myself from being a total fuck-stick.

Within moments, a handsome Doxie I had met at the last troupe engagement timidly requested my affections. Short and petite with delicate features, this brunette also sported a slightly plump posterior—a vice I lasciviously covet. That she was taken made me indignant, as did her bucolic bearing—no doubt a product of her horrendous education at a certain East Texas school. (Also, I am not sure if she asked me for my autograph). After antagofeasting her and her boorish Alma mater, I demanded she carry my mead flagon whilst I bestowed my mark upon the talismans of many a-quivering doxie. "Hold this", I would say as I flirted at length with her many competitors. Incensed by her failure to attain my prized affections, she scolded me and stormed away in a great, galumphing huff. Methinks I took that game a tad too far, but time will tell.

After a brief band photo shoot session commemorating the occasion, rife with saucy poses and pouty countenances (to the delight of eager onlookers), we made our way to the patio. Our nymph lead singer demanded attention and began singing one of our jollier tunes, as the crowd clapped and roared with delight. My festive cheer guided me to the next target of my affections- an Iranian expat hipster version of Robin Tunney.

Nymph: "You are probably smarter than 90% of the people
here"

Me: "I know"

Nymph: "That is cocky!" I laughed. Then she asked me how old I was.

I replied, "Don't worry, I don't think you're too
old for me."

"But, oh! I have a boyfriend," she said as her cheeks grew flushed and her eyes became heavy and glazed with lust.
She touched her collar bone tenderly, her fingers playing along its outline as she tried, unsuccessfully, to resist. The nymph eagerly gushed her hopes and dreams to me, the ambivalent shaman, as I absentmindedly paused to check my cell phone or wave to friends. Each time she grew impatient I would brush her, seemingly by accident. First an arm, then a thigh. Soon I transitioned to adjusting her jewelry and hair, finally fiddling with her glasses.


"I think it's cool that you are unafraid to look dorky", I said, "You make it your own!"

Naturally she transitioned to whispering "secrets" in my ear which were about as confidential and sensitive as a Fortune 500 Facebook profile. I grasped her short hair and pulled her ear toward my lips, her petite frame tensing briefly before its surrender. I demanded that she reveal more valuable secrets and threatened to extract them through more persuasive methods.

But hark! A gaggle of new found feastrels approached out of nowhere and offered me libations, interrupting my nefarious hypnotism. As wave after wave of admiring groupies descended upon me, the nymph, overwhelmed by the surging hordes, disappeared in the morass. A short pause gave way to further courtship of the Rusty Nail. I was now drunk on power AND elixir, and rapidly grew more and more belligerent. The feast gods of mischief had possessed me fully! My antagofeasting was now as blunt as it was impetuous, and to inflame matters I was surrounded by insolence! Among the several that I propositioned, I made one cougar cry (by pointing out her age, subtly or blatantly I do not remember), and also lubriciously requisitioned the fetching mead wench who accused me of my indiscretion.

Without pausing to answer to the growing protest, I made my way to the establishment's water closet. After the usual ceremonies, while whistling and admiring my reflection, I was ambushed by the Iranian Tunney! She had spotted my merry gait and lurked like a jungle cat, waiting to rush me from the surrounding thicket. I happily kissed her as she clawed into my haunches, and to her delight, I made her my prey. I had little time. In a flash of genius, I thought back to one of my pleasurable cinematic excursions in which I witnessed a sexual maneuver known as the dutch rudder. I will not reveal the outcome of the negotiation that transpired (that would be un-gentlemanly), but I will say that the vixen was quite amused by the novelty of our boisterous rumpus.

As I made my way back into the mead hall it became apparent that I, the salacious wizard, was no longer welcome. My victims had vindictively mentioned my earlier indiscretions to the manager and eagerly pointed out that I was the cause of the growing rabble outside of the men's room. (My laser feast focus had blocked out the noise of several impatient patrons pounding on the door that I had barricaded shut.)

But fair Freyr was to remain sympathetic to my feast that night! Just as the booze steward began to hassle me, my trusty feastrel friend arrived to whisk us away to the next feasting hall. He had not been drinking, (as he needed to get up the next day on order from his pooh-bah, and graciously agreed to take us to the next beachhead- which was infested with strip-ed and afflicted drone alike. Thankfully my aggressive countenance and swashbuckling pulchritude made me irresistible to the establishment's maidens, so I quickly seized the nearest Doxie and began a-grinding. Like Hephaestus masterfully shaping Olympian irons, I bent her to my will with the ardent glow of my vigorous pelvic undulations. Alas, our union was broken by the tumult revelers exiting the closing mead hall. As I departed, I ran across a cabal of entitled looking slatterns parsimoniously guarding a pack of Camel Lights. The mere sight of these blond visages of sweet Aphrodite urged me, like a naughty naughty Ares, to further antagofeast.

Me: "Give me your cigarettes."

Slatterns: "Oh, here you go!", as they fidgeted excitedly. I walk
away.

Slatterns to my feastrel friend: "Oh hell no! He can't just steal our cigarettes, that's bullshit!"

Me to my feastrel friend: "A bountiful conquest. Now we feast!!!! To Lil' Bigs, padawan."

Feastrel friend to me: "Give me those bro, we gotta give em back! They're trying to find the bouncers or the cop outside...."

Me: "NEVER SUBMIT TO A SLATTERN"

Finally, my feastrel friend snatched my prize and returned it to the flustered bevy of squawking straw-haired stoats. It was time to leave. After finding the Doxie and acquiring her phone number in front of her protesting Drone boyfriend, I signaled my nubbin feastrel and we retreated back to his bro palace, where I seized an unopened box of Wheat Thins as recompense for his insubordination. The feast was mine again!

1 comment:

  1. Feastrel friend....your skawking Aunt...is missing you and your damsel....the insubordination.....ouch...call us you rascal! we have wheat thins....xo

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