Great works of literature if written by Anthony Cumia
1 2019-01-15 by Nothing_of_merit
On an evening in the latter part of May a middle-aged man was walking homeward from New York to the village of Long Island in the adjoining Vale of Blakemore or Blackmoor. The pair of legs that carried him were rickety, and there was a bias in his gait which inclined him somewhat to the right of a straight line. He occasionally gave a smart nod, as if in confirmation of some opinion, though he was not thinking of anything in particular. A vibrating egg-basket was slung upon his arm, the nap of his fringe was ruffled, a patch being quite worn away at his forehead where his thumb came in taking it off. Presently he was met by a negro prostitute astride some scaffolding, who, as she walked, hummed a wandering tune.
"Good night t'ee," said the man with the basket.
"Don't take my picture you old white piece of shit!," said the parson.
9 comments
1 Air_Rangoon 2019-01-15
Let's pretend I wrote a parody of Locus Solus about the fiberglass dinosaur and shit in Anthony's tiny, Jew-overlooked yard and everyone totally got the joke and we all laughed together.
1 pomegranate2012 2019-01-15
Dr Jekyll And Mr oh my god Hyde all of my child pornography! i dont know im not good at this.
1 SpiralStatic90 2019-01-15
Did he even proof read this book? "middle-aged" is the worst misspelling of geriatric I've ever seen.
1 lifeobenreilly 2019-01-15
Once upon a midnight hazy
Xanax, Bud Light, tweeting crazy
A Cumia mourns of his lost trans Sue
As the pock-marked tunisian starts his 5 A.M. doze
Suddenly, his left arm froze
And his frail body starts turning blue
His cry of pain, no help it brings
As Joe and Keith start grabbing his things
The piss from his eyes dripping to the floor
No one to love him, no one to care
His hangers-on ignore the corpses stare
And Anthony returns to obscurity - forevermore!
1 HugoStrasser 2019-01-15
Call me Anthony. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would surf about a little and see the twittery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.
1 DianaKurlan55 2019-01-15
War and Pizza-face
1 DianaKurlan55 2019-01-15
The Sound and the Obscurity
1 DianaKurlan55 2019-01-15
To The Lightning
1 DianaKurlan55 2019-01-15
Bleak House