Supporting my sister, Juno

Reprinted in its entirety, with permission. Juno Henry is an old, old friend, and her pain is my pain. Fuck you, Mr. Henry. Fuck you very much

Read the original post here.

Mr Henry has sadly suffered a hissy fit of epic proportions, which has led to his ultimate demise.

Once he was a studly and virile lover. Sadly, over the years his prowess waned considerably, and he has been reduced to whining and wailing dramatically in lieu of any real sexual interaction. His famously short cock, albeit rich in girth, lusts vainly after strapping young Korean lads, who wouldn’t touch the crusty old gaijin with a barge pole, and so much more so not their own.

His fetish for being cuckolded was what brought about his final downfall. Unable to accept that the woman who he repeatedly claimed to love over the course of 12 years, to whom he said over and over “It’s you. It’s always been you. It will always be you.” was free of him, and no longer wanted anything to do with him, he self-imploded.

The final straw came when she told him of her life and her stable of studly, sexy, virile lovers who have never even looked at a little blue pill, and her ongoing divorce. To her, as to most normal humans, this was called “news”, or “what’s going on in my life, man who I haven’t seen since 2006”. To him, this was an invitation to self-harm, throw a temper tantrum, and finally, completely, and utterly, lose his shit.

Upon the presentation via Facebook and email, of certain lewd and inappropriate suggestions on his part, and their subsequent rejection in their entirety, Mr Henry lost the plot. Expunging himself of much hoarded bile and ill-feeling, he wrote a pissy little note to this author, speaking of how he had also expunged himself of her and anything to do with her — and how this had delighted him.

And then he ceased to be.

He was, as the Pythons would have it, an ex-Parrot. Or similar. Although as metaphors go, parrot is quite appropriate for Mr Henry. When he spoke, whether on paper or out loud, much squawking did ensue. As he got older, so his writing got grayer, like the hair on his arms, back and shoulders. His notions became more staid and repetitive. His syntax grew stodgy and stale. His charm waned considerably, and his bright spark all but vanished. His delightful eloquence gave way to turgid loquacity, and his originality transmogrified into plagiarism and dullness.

In short, what was once love gave way to vitriol and ill-wishes. Misbehavior attractive in a rambunctious, tousle-headed child became loathsome and vile in an overgrown, immature malcontent. Was he always this way? Not according to my perception, certainly not then. But now — no question.

So goodbye, stranger who was once my adored love. Goodbye, farewell, good riddance, don’t let the swing door hit you on your wrinkling, saggy ass as you flounce away.

Rest in peace.

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