In my salad days of cross-dressing and raising this fine parrot, my Auntie would often ply me with strong tea and a bowl of marzipan rabbits, then set me in front of the 6 inch black & white tellie for a bit of the kiddie yuck-it-up. My favorite show featured some sort of lizard or dragon or alligator sock-puppet named Kubla. Not even Auntie's endless flirtations- "Are my seams straight, little Hans?", she would twitter, hiking up her skirts to reveal
her personal marzipan- could avert my eyes from the raw power of that Kubla the lizard or dragon or alligator sock-puppet. Decades later, as I molder away like an old cheese - rusting away ingloriously like Adolph the barber's Studebaker - which he bought from an American soldier, I look back with unbridled delight at the hours of staring at my own shoeless feet and conjuring up images of the sleeping Leviathons lurking quietly in my own socks. Yes, even the blue socks with the lariats and Stetsons. Regrettably, I can no longer recall the visage of Kubla, nor of his two side-kicks, whose very names escape me. But occasionally, after too much lime Jello here at the home, I dream of that noble trio and...just for an instant... their faces appear before me as clear as my daily urine sample.
In my salad days of cross-dressing and raising this fine parrot, my Auntie would often ply me with strong tea and a bowl of marzipan rabbits, then set me in front of the 6 inch black & white tellie for a bit of the kiddie yuck-it-up. My favorite show featured some sort of lizard or dragon or alligator sock-puppet named Kubla. Not even Auntie's endless flirtations- "Are my seams straight, little Hans?", she would twitter, hiking up her skirts to reveal her personal marzipan- could avert my eyes from the raw power of that Kubla the lizard or dragon or alligator sock-puppet. Decades later, as I molder away like an old cheese - rusting away ingloriously like Adolph the barber's Studebaker - which he bought from an American soldier, I look back with unbridled delight at the hours of staring at my own shoeless feet and conjuring up images of the sleeping Leviathons lurking quietly in my own socks. Yes, even the blue socks with the lariats and Stetsons. Regrettably, I can no longer recall the visage of Kubla, nor of his two side-kicks, whose very names escape me. But occasionally, after too much lime Jello here at the home, I dream of that noble trio and...just for an instant... their faces appear before me as clear as my daily urine sample.
