protean depravity

All around the world tens of thousands of fan girls dressed in pink pony shirts or black Victorian attires sipping their mini appletinis and Lady Grey teas are hit with the news... They push aside their bitch curtains, put away the Derrida they've been engrossed in, and start jumping for joy because THE BUNNIES ARE BACK! If you too missed the Smut Salon, the restaurant "Mini", the fiction girls and poetry boys, then it's time to rejoice, as the most infamous clique of literary absurdness doesn't fail to deliver for a second time.

“In poetry, the era of the blond, rosy cheeked, perfect Petrarchan beauty is over now,” shouts Herr Professor Prissnitz* pointing his finger to blond, rosy cheeked, perfect Michaela* whose leisurely gum-chewing provides a sharp contrast to the zest and energy with which our literature professor delivers his lecture. While she hides her surprise behind an arrogant smirk which in turn hides behind arduous and rhythmic jaw motion, he ups his voice a note and nearly screams “It's YOUR time now!” To my sheer dread and terror he turns that finger to me, while I, pathologically introverted and socially awkward, quickly bury my head in the colossal Norton Anthology of English Literature Seventh Edition/Volume One in front of me, at the same time trying to control the black clouds of anxiety obscuring my vision and to regulate my breathing and pulse by taking slow, deep breaths. The open page before me shows William Shakespeare's Sonnet 130 , the infamous sonnet in which he courageously...