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The Naked Flower Waterers


“Here, eccentricities are flaunted. Venerated. 

I’m told there is a rather notorious celebrity clique of weirdos that luxuriates in the most ludicrous and vile debauchery one could ever imagine and witness…

Of course, I’ve never been initiated into their grotesquerie. Nor, do I desire.

They’re pathetic. Having regressed to juveniles. Performing rituals with black candles and attempting to summon the demons of Crowley and LaVey to gain some sort of illumination. Lord… In actuality, they’re dissolute group of privileged, childless boomers experimenting with the last of their money. After they’re all dead, another generation of childless, monied phonies will buy their houses. Of course, that’s if they can even afford these old monstrosities…

You don’t want to move here do you? Ah. No…

I will say that you are gaining a reputation as the unofficial chronicler of this little neighborhood. I read your blog detailing Casper’s

Wait. It’s Kasper. He’s Danish. Did he tell you? No? The goddamn braggart failed to mention his royal pedigree? Unbelievable…Well, he was in a state of near delirium contending with that random Burning Man like gathering of homeless and nearly being ousted by the historic committee. Who, in a followup to your blog, were legally compelled to replace Kasper’s front door. Remember? They nailed his violations to the door with a railroad spike. Ah, yes, the irony of it all! A few thousand it cost those pretentious fucktards to import another artisanal piece from some Danish woodmaster. Of course, that raised all our neighborhood fees. Your local government at work, once again.

But, unlike Kasper, I don’t want to ramble, intoxicated by my own luscious, verbose vocabulary.  

The latest rumpus affecting these enchanted environs is neither salacious nor emanating from some occult energy that has been festering here for generations. The degenerates, I just spoke of, bored from their magick, have become restless and cantankerous. 

Wanna get naked, and water your neighbor’s flowers at three-am? 

Oh, how transgressive!

Inspired by their dark elixirs—which, I’m told, happen to be nothing at all netherworldly, but rather crude, juvenile, over-the-counter alcohols like Jaegermeister and the orgasmic excretions of sexual organs, vile debauchery like I said—they cavort about your property while you’re snuggled beneath your thousand dollar organic, fair trade bedsheets and seize! your vintage watering can to…well, water your flowers.

Oh, the horror, the horror! My fellow community members exclaim, collapsing upon their settees like Southern belles afflicted with the vapors.

I enjoy teasing these hand-wringers, acting as an apologist, But they are environmentalists!

Have you seen the surveillance footage, these naturists in all their glorious wattle and flab? You have? Have you scrutinized the reactions to those who feel violated by these fiends? Yes?

It’s all tedious, dramatized trauma. They’re perverts. Titillated voyeurs. Each morning, like children on Christmas day barging down the staircase, these jaded wealthatarians seize their smartphones to open their security system apps, hoping that each digitally recorded frame reveals some naked flower waterer so they can get their morning dose of stroking and flicking-the-bean until their brunch of child sacrifice and Veuve Clicquot.

Yes! Hopefully I’m much more entertaining than Kasper.

Here’s another amusing morsel for your investigation: are you aware, the police have never been notified?

’Tis interesting how these perpetrators of perversion remain unrecognized…

Yes, I’m sure it’s the black masks they wear. Masks imprinted with white, skeletal faces. Costumes from some Mexican Day Of The Dead celebration. Remarkably, none of the frightened and offended have screeched cultural appropriation.

My interviewee reaches for his phone, “Gander at this…”

The phone’s large screen displays black and white footage of a naked, stumbling, slim man whose head is covered with a taut, black disguise.

“Now, look at that prodigious dong. You’re telling me, nobody in this neighborhood is able to recollect that monstrosity being crammed into one of their prim and proper orifices? No?” My interviewee laughs, winking at me. “Because, I sure do.”

Other Stories In This Series: The Horrors Of The Privileged Class

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