gyrofry posted:
The Man Whose Pharynx Was HorrorizedBy Martin Amis

In Memory of Christopher Hitchens, 1949- (note to ed: hold this piece for publication until throat c. gets Hitch; then publish IMMED. MA)

The first hiccup of his usurpation was the second bottle. It slithered past the incisors, a Mamba of zooanthropic vengeance, exuding a peaty pathos, a 12-year-old blurt of inhumation, to crash against the pharynx which had held, Cincinattus-esque, against so many lucre-hefted Caledonian tides, but which on this first day of a coming future teetered and fell, a single twin tower, a meat WTC, revealing in its nude Lucretism the weakness of the West. The belch of flame engulfed us all. It was the end of everything. In all the great conurbations of the trembling Occident, we took a step backward, appalled and sickened by that belch of the grave.

The pharynx: une rose en steak, a cellwall sturdy yet preemptively extinguished like Harold’s at Hastings, stood revealed as mere jello against the Cullodenic onslaught of dissolution, literal, Balrogian, galvanic. Its first insolent anthem was a belch of Gehennan digestic juices screaming Jihad. Their chthonic conturbation overwhelmed Oxbridge, Fleet Street, and obliterated the Canary Wharf of his voice.

Yet the loyal were slow to assign verity to the dispersing cloud of thanatos, the radius of Terror, the red circle of total destruction mapped by that hiccup, for more than a pharynx wobbled in the scales. This was the pharynx that, like Lady Gaga’s meat dress, shielded multitudes from the unspeakable. This voicebox shimmered wetly as impassable barrier to the desert hordes, a blood-gorged sahel holding back the sands of the Sahara, each grain incised with Koranic verses promising death. It was as if, in a documentary produced by Elburzian deities for our demoralization, we were watching in slow motion as an infiltrated grain of sand slipped through security, evaded the metal detectors unturned to silicate, however fanatical, and by stearine mimicry of the Western smile, was assigned a seat on that precious pharynx, economy class no doubt but deadly enough for all its demotic parsimony, and once strapped in, the safety video mournfully complete, the seat-belt sign turned off, this alien silicate, this Horda of fundamentalism, left its seat on the pharynx and migrated throatward, recruiting comrades among the notoriously perverted tribes of the lower throat, the upper Nile, the treacherous Nubia of a now utterly vulnerable Egypt: his very head.

(Note to ed. Is this enough? I can do you however much you want but it will be twice the usual rate—close friend, v. shaken up, etc. MA)

every time i think about hitch i think about this and cant stop laughing ahahhaha its so good

germanjoey posted:

gyrofry posted:
The Man Whose Pharynx Was HorrorizedBy Martin Amis

In Memory of Christopher Hitchens, 1949- (note to ed: hold this piece for publication until throat c. gets Hitch; then publish IMMED. MA)

The first hiccup of his usurpation was the second bottle. It slithered past the incisors, a Mamba of zooanthropic vengeance, exuding a peaty pathos, a 12-year-old blurt of inhumation, to crash against the pharynx which had held, Cincinattus-esque, against so many lucre-hefted Caledonian tides, but which on this first day of a coming future teetered and fell, a single twin tower, a meat WTC, revealing in its nude Lucretism the weakness of the West. The belch of flame engulfed us all. It was the end of everything. In all the great conurbations of the trembling Occident, we took a step backward, appalled and sickened by that belch of the grave.

The pharynx: une rose en steak, a cellwall sturdy yet preemptively extinguished like Harold’s at Hastings, stood revealed as mere jello against the Cullodenic onslaught of dissolution, literal, Balrogian, galvanic. Its first insolent anthem was a belch of Gehennan digestic juices screaming Jihad. Their chthonic conturbation overwhelmed Oxbridge, Fleet Street, and obliterated the Canary Wharf of his voice.

Yet the loyal were slow to assign verity to the dispersing cloud of thanatos, the radius of Terror, the red circle of total destruction mapped by that hiccup, for more than a pharynx wobbled in the scales. This was the pharynx that, like Lady Gaga’s meat dress, shielded multitudes from the unspeakable. This voicebox shimmered wetly as impassable barrier to the desert hordes, a blood-gorged sahel holding back the sands of the Sahara, each grain incised with Koranic verses promising death. It was as if, in a documentary produced by Elburzian deities for our demoralization, we were watching in slow motion as an infiltrated grain of sand slipped through security, evaded the metal detectors unturned to silicate, however fanatical, and by stearine mimicry of the Western smile, was assigned a seat on that precious pharynx, economy class no doubt but deadly enough for all its demotic parsimony, and once strapped in, the safety video mournfully complete, the seat-belt sign turned off, this alien silicate, this Horda of fundamentalism, left its seat on the pharynx and migrated throatward, recruiting comrades among the notoriously perverted tribes of the lower throat, the upper Nile, the treacherous Nubia of a now utterly vulnerable Egypt: his very head.

(Note to ed. Is this enough? I can do you however much you want but it will be twice the usual rate—close friend, v. shaken up, etc. MA)

every time i think about hitch i think about this and cant stop laughing ahahhaha its so good

every time i see this posted i read the whole thing. i think i've done so like 20 times by now, and i never wanna read it, not even the first time haha