Hi kids, knew I’d catch you reading this!
I think of my pipes as an extetion of my Wang. By that of course I mean an archaic word processor.
This would not be possible were I female, in which case my pipes, as an extention of my other anthropomorphically referential tubes, would have to be characterized in more concavedly feminine terms. In either case, pipes are gender-neutral until grafted into the human owner afterwhich they simply stick out like sore thumbs, chilly nipples, or any other gender-specific protruding appendage that superficial comparisons might allow in polite company.
And again, I personally prefer only slightly impolite company so that too may well have affected my observations.
Now, quick, lock this topic before it gets any more interesting or clever than the puny limits of its witless immoderators permit…
And don’t anyone laugh or I’ll kick your bellows up to your tonsils and beat you with a bass drone. A great big manly bass drone at that. As our omipotent Master Modermaster once said, “I like my drones how I like my men, long and black and hard.” Maybe I said that. I think the other guy said, “Like my coffee, hot and black.”
Anyway, the notion of imagining some sexual orientation connected to a set of pipes is no more asinine, rude and absurd than my pondering here. I hope I’ve made my point, now knock it off. I’m only messing with your head joint because that’s my bagpipe. I don’t mean to drone on and on but if you’ll just take a second octave you’ll find it’s a rush to pop into the hard D-scussion. You don’t need to tell me when it’s time to hit the shut off valve but I paid for all these keys and I’m damned well going to work them all into this tune whether they belong or not.
Everything goes in. Everything goes out. Fish, pajamas old bannanas, mutton beef and trout. No, no, not the leg! I found the men sir, God I wish I hadn’t…
I have to go now because there’s another dead bishop on the landing. The dustmen won’t touch 'em so I have to start up the brush chipper.
