In response to writing prompt Grasp:
I sit here and wank out yet another pile as if the floor maggots who eventually discover they can fly will find sugar water without drowning in it. Either that or they do gurgle and bubble in ecstasy and at least keep away from the holiday picnic basket.
Wanking. What’s it all about? There’s wanking to the choir. There’s wanking until you’re blue in the face. There’s wanking on your soapbox. Wank-wank, we all wank. Wanking is wasted on the ignorant. Once, someone said, “Wanking is wasted on Americans.” Wankers.
I hate to admit it. It’s true. We all start out as maggots. Some go through metamorphosis and become a tool without brains or a backbone. Like a maggot or a giant insect.
“All we own, we owe;” “all we own, we owe”.
You really think that one ant life matters? No, not the queen’s life. That little maggot factory queen. Sure. Every ant life matters. Easily replaced as long as the queen keeps pumping out maggot capsules.
I’m telling you. That life matters to an anteater with his wormy tongue dipping into his cup and twirling it like a kid’s sticky straw gathers the sugar crystals of particle candy. Slurp. Mmmmmmm.
Wanking goes on. Naturally, one will eventually argue that wanking is spilt seed. No maggot comes of it. But if you are one who spills sperm, look at your splooge under a microscope. Yep. If it looks like maggots, then it is maggots.
Wanking is in the eye of the beholder. I beheld myself and got it in my eye. Behold yourself and see how far your wanking launches. Did you hit the wall on the other side of the room? Or across the world?
Thought is the seed of action. — Ralph Waldo Emerson