Michael Malone - Weebly

this "sexual abuse" of Art derive from a squeamishness
that might seem compatible with her age and heritage.
Mrs. Canopy went staunchly off to be raped by Art
once a week. She was not afraid of Virginia Woolf, and
while Oh! Calcutta! had cost her an involuntary
struggle, she'd never let out a scream. Neither was
violence any less supportable. Ushers had carried away
far younger than she when Porko Fulawhiski attempted
to disembowel himself with a palette knife in Dead on
Red: Final Appearance of a One-Man Show in
SoHo.
What was it then that so disturbed her now about
these clippings of Old Tim Hines and a relative of the
Queen, the latter of whom she planned to lunch with this
summer at the Waldorf across a crowded room of
some seven hundred other Bicentennialists? "Mr. Hines
may or may not be; but that band just simply isn't
sincere. Or maybe I'm just getting old," she suggested
with a brisk sigh. The cutouts describing the cutups of
Hines and the Stabbo-Massacrism Band introduced
today's topic, "Sexuality and the Arts." Their guest
speaker was Mr. Rich Rage, an obscene poet hailed by