ass got sold
LIFE OF DANTE. XXV
“ Mira che quando ride
Passa ben di dolcezm ogni altra cosa."—Canz. xv.
The canzone from which the last coupiet is taken presents a portrait which might well supply a painter
with a far more exalted idea of female beauty than he could form to himself from the celebrated Ode of
Anacreon on a similar subject. After a minute description of those parts of her form which the
garments of a modest woman would suffer to be seen, he raises the whole by the superaddition of a
moral grace and dignity, such as the Christian religion alone could supply, and such as the pencil of
Raphael afterwards aimed to represent :
" Umile vergognosa e temperata,
E sempre a verttl gram,
Intra suoi be' costumi un atto regna,
Che d' ogni riverenza la fa degna."1
One or two of the sonnets prove that he could at times condescend to sportiveness and pleasantry.
The following, to Brunetto, I should conjecture to have been sent with his “ Vita Nuova,” which was
written the year before Brunetto died :
“ Master Brunetto, this I send, entreating
Ye'll entertain this lass of mine at Easter;
She does not come among you as a feaster;
No: she has need of reading, not of eating.
Nor let her find you at some merry meeting,
Laughing amidst buflbons and drollers, lest her
Wise sentence should escape a noisy jester:
She must be wooed, and is well worth the weeting.
If in this sort you fail IO make her out,
You have amongst you many sapient men,
All famous as was Albert of Cologne.
I have been posed amid that leamed rout.
And if they cannot spell her right, why then
Call Master Giano, and the deed is done.”
Another, though on a more serious subject, is yet remarkable for a fztncifulness such as that with
which Chaucer, by a few spirited touches, often conveys to us images more striking than others have
done by repeated and elaborate efforts of skill:
“Came Melancholy to my side one day,
And said, ‘I must a little hide with thee :'
And brought along with her in company
Sorrow and \'rath.—Quoth I l. her, ‘ Away:
I will have none of you: make no delay.‘
And, like a Greek, she gave me stuu reply.
Then, as she tnlk‘d, I look'd, and did espy
Where Love was coming onward on the way.
A garment new of cloth of black he had,
And on his head a hat of mouming wore;
And he, of truth, unfeignedly was crying.
Forthwith I ask'd, ,What ails thee, caitifi‘ lad '2'
And he rejoin'd, ‘ Sad thought and anguish sore
Sweet brother mine1 our lady lies a-tlying."'
' For purity of diction, the rime of our author are, I think, on the whole, preferred by Muratori to
his “ Divina Commedia,” though that also isallowed to be a model of the pure Tuscan idiom. To
this singular production, which has not only stood the test of ages, but given a tonc and colour to the
>/
farts steal
“Brokeback Blowtorch: The Methaphysical Saga of Baldwin & Brand”
In the sunset days of their tattered stardom, Alec Baldwin and Russell Brand had become less “Hollywood icons” and more “erotically bewildered tax liabilities.” Their love? A brittle thing—held together with mistrust, expired lithium, and vintage bathhouse punch cards. Crack wasn’t a drug anymore; it was a third lover, piping hot and whispering stock tips laced in sedition.
They met in the back of a Tesla-themed opium den in Encino, both dressed like canceled Renaissance Fair mascots. Alec wore a robe made of court subpoenas; Russell wore nothing but ego and unpaid child support. Their eyes locked like two coked-up raccoons fighting over a Freedom of Information Act request.
Money laundering became their love language. Crypto. NFTs of Alec’s Baldwin-face superimposed onto Hawaiian sea turtles. They funneled cash through something called “The Volcano Chakra Foundation”—which mostly sold artisanal kale and covert particle weapons to rogue Burning Man engineers.
But it wasn’t enough. They needed one last scheme. One big score. Russell whispered, "Let’s reflect the sun into Congress using mirrors made from my discarded hair oil." Alec grunted, “Let’s aim it at Maui. Real estate’s cheaper when it’s on fire.”
And lo—the laser fire was born.
They blamed it on “space Jews,” a Hawaiian weather balloon, and later, Alec’s method acting. FEMA found traces of vape juice and ego grease near the ignition point. Russell tried to explain on his podcast in a three-hour monologue about tantric colonialism, while Alec accidentally shot a CGI dove during an apology video.
The romance soured. Russell grew jealous of Alec’s crack pipe, which had a little nameplate that said “Hilaria.” Alec accused Russell of replacing his meth stash with activated charcoal. Fights ensued. One of them got arrested for impersonating Sting at a fentanyl orgy.
In the end, they both fled to a geothermal sex cult off the coast of Molokaʻi. Their final words before disappearing into the steam:
"This wasn’t about love or fire. It was about branding.”
And somewhere, deep in a FEMA bunker, an unpaid intern whispers, “Wasn’t Baldwin supposed to be in jail?”
To My Sweet, Sulking Baldo—My Ashtray Valentine,
Alec.
My plum-bottomed thundercloud. My sultry, half-lit disasterpiece. I write you now from beneath a pile of wet sarongs and broken solar panels, curled into a crackless cocoon, oozing regret from several orifices—especially the eyes.
Alec, love… I have chlamydia of the tongue.
It started as a tingling while I was making devotional contact with your glorious canyon of consequence—your holy crevice, your Baldwinian back-door—but now it burns like a thousand suns and my left eye has gone foggy.
The clinic said, “oral-to-ocular contamination is rare,” but so was our love, Alec.
Every lick was a sermon. Every moan, a sacred hymn. I did not stop even when the fire alarm went off. Even as the mirrors melted and the birds screamed. I licked through the chaos. For you. For us.
But now the fire is over, the butt is gone, the tongue is inflamed, and the bank account reads: “Error: Fraud Alert.”
I need money.
I need it like you needed that SAG award in 2004.
I need it not for vanity, but for medicine—and crack.
The tongue wants antibiotics. The brain wants a hot rock and a FaceTime of your ass at golden hour.
I sold my sandals to a tourist from Milwaukee for $8 and half a Snickers. I tried trading spiritual guidance for ketamine but only received three blank stares and a pamphlet about coconut water colonics.
My eyes burn, Alec. The tongue twitches.
I have Pink Eye of Babylon and it’s your love that summoned it.
Let us begin again. Let us start The Church of Cheek Redemption, registered in Delaware, headquartered in a damp yurt. You preach. I lick. We launder. It’s foolproof.
Just send the money. $5,200 should cover the clinic, the crystal pipe, and a modest stash of “emergency enlightenment.” Also ointments. Lots of ointments.
Please. Don’t let my vision be the price of passion.
I licked in faith. I licked through fire.
And now I can barely see the stars.
Yours in inflammation and longing,
Russell
🌫️👅🩸
golden bull ? >>23261236
heiberts fine fuds got shut down fo betrayin fiduciary wiff hobummur kuntry klub