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| Perfect example of an elven king tailor-made for the purpose I describe below: Thranduil from the Hobbit. |
It mostly hurts after a while. It feels like someone is repeatedly
rubbing half onions on my back. I want to do something else than
clicking on boxes, calculating sums and dragging ranges. Like a good
girl, I suck it up and sigh. And dream of elven kings with long blond
hair, who are so snobbish even dust avoids settling on them, fearing
their disapproval. As a way to blow off steam, I dream that I am chasing
the aforesaid king on horseback. In a field full of brambles. And he
is terrified, on foot and wearing absolutely nothing. And I am holding a flogging stick and hit him
for extra encouragement. There's probably a hapless human in there
too, and I am sure he or she is the creator of Excel. They are an easy
target; sooner or later they will collapse inside a bramble bush, and
I'll leave them to find the way out on their own.
So the elven king runs for dear life, his testicles dangling about like a meaty pendulum, his penis making a flapping sound against his thighs, his wide back golden pink in colour and full of crisscrossing red welts, his legs covered in scratches, his firm, muscular butt poetry in motion, and I yell like a banshee from the back of my horse. Run, motherfucker, run! Run because when I catch you I'll have a distinguished elven aristocrat for supper and guess what, you'll be the main course!
So the elven king runs for dear life, his testicles dangling about like a meaty pendulum, his penis making a flapping sound against his thighs, his wide back golden pink in colour and full of crisscrossing red welts, his legs covered in scratches, his firm, muscular butt poetry in motion, and I yell like a banshee from the back of my horse. Run, motherfucker, run! Run because when I catch you I'll have a distinguished elven aristocrat for supper and guess what, you'll be the main course!
If I keep going,
I am pretty certain eventually he will stumble and fall. I hope he lands face first on a
pile of horse or bear shit. And rest assured I'll jump off the horse and step on his
head to make it sink deeper in it.
(What do you mean this
is just too cruel? It's a mating ritual. You wouldn't understand. The
way these fuckers pose and their behaviour manages to tickle all the
wrong anatomical bits of me, unfortunately together with the right
ones.)
The reason my basic hero in that other story (/book/
trilogy/ saga) is a dark elf, is that they usually are stronger, faster,
and more vicious than any pure-blooded, arrogant, belonging to a
superior race and blessed by the gods elf. And they have absolutely no
qualms about punching those arrogant dickbags in the face and bloodying
their perfect noses. In fact there's nothing they, or their maker, would
enjoy more than that. So I cackle with glee and go back to learning
Excel. Maybe one day I'll write that story. Maybe not. Let me finish
with what I'm halfway through first, and we'll see about that.
Here is the site I am using to learn Excel, if you feel like torturing yourselves:
And here are some more Thranduil photos in case you want to have a better look. ;)
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