Mister-Skank's avatar


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145 Deviations
Artist // Hobbyist // Traditional Art
  • Mar 27
  • United States
  • Deviant for 6 years
  • He / Him
Llama: Llamas are awesome! (6)
My Bio
Feathered and Tarred

Mr. Skank just wanted to lie down on his back, open his palms to the air, listen to his breath slow, and let his thoughts rise freely into the __?__ until he fell asleep. But he could not. There was the baby to watch, dirty dishes to wash, laundry to start, grass to mow, garbage to drag to the curb, bills to pay, his account to balance, his mother to call, his classes to plan, his boss to please, a book to read, his friend to write, and his project to complete. Each day it seemed he had less energy, less will, less money, less time, more chores, more duties, more regrets, and more inertia. He felt like a big heavy rock, a dull gray 250-pound rock denied its right to fulfill its true nature, to come to rest and to remain at rest. Mr. Skank made a list.

1—Talent? Hardly held in high regard!
2—His reputation? Permanently scarred.
3—Heavenly beauty? Inevitably marred.
4—Perfect freedom? Certain to be barred.
5—Personal effect? All strife does retard.
6—Eternal truth? Life is way too hard.

Just then his toast popped up charred! This was his life! He had double-bogeyed the eighteenth hole and everyone else had parred! In this reflection Mr. Skank had missed the tiny diamond lights by which the vast black night sky is so brilliantly starred and twice six thousand million miracle eye mirrors are nightly lightly kissed. Not out but in, not up but down, he stared. And in that well if he saw hell, who cared? So stank Mr. Skank, one fine blind big old fat tub of lard!

Favourite Visual Artist
Edward Hopper
Favourite Movies
The Wizard of Oz
Favourite TV Shows
The original Kung Fu
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
The Beatles
Favourite Books
The Republic
Favourite Writers
Favourite Games
The Silent Game
Favourite Gaming Platform
Tools of the Trade
Other Interests

Epitaph for Mr. Skank

0 min read
He was not strong He dint belong He left the throng He walked his dong He smoked his bong He struck his gong He sang his song He meant no wrong He lived this long     1939-1984
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0 min read
The morning of Friday, April 2, 2004, was perfect—a cloudless, sunny sky, a gentle, cool breeze—an absolutely gorgeous spring day. Katy, who would be three at the end of July, and I walked Dylan, who would be seven at the end of August, to his first grade class at Mockingbird Elementary School five blocks away. Dylan, neatly dressed, hair combed, backpack squarely on his shoulders, lunch box in his hand, proudly led the way. I followed several steps behind. Another ten steps behind me strolled Katy, dawdling, pausing, looking at this, staring at that, stopping to pick up a feather, stopping again to inspect an ant, turning in circ
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