Macrobius the nasty writer and his deformed son

Macrobius is nasty: he collects microbes in his odd hat with a fucking ballon de football on top


his son [unnamed for the story] he is deformed.


Macrobius gives the son a paper with pestilent smell full of wisdom and

[the science



product of the many speculations of Egyptian arithmetician Testiculus Felicius (100-249 AD) about the reach of a cumshot after six hours of vigorous chafing.



Insofar, the son abhors all this semi-exact obscurantism from the Late Antiquity and Early Middle Ages, but just accepts the paternal instruction with consternated abnegation.
Because he is standing on a rock while his father is seated on a comfortable throne (seniority privilege), and his toga smells like buttsweat.

Because the feet of the son look like two enlarged chilli peppers, and the deformness of his hands remind one of the repugnant elephantiasis, a common disease in London and Scotland.



An exuberant lymphoma full of liquid blue cheese grows on the pink finger of his left hand, probably a divine punishment sent by Seus, for his effeminate soft clothes and ambiguous stares: his balls carry an inflated varicocele full of yoghurt which beats crazily with humid, torrid weather.











Twenty-one minutes later, Macrobius the nasty writer and his deformed son are drinking a flask of gelid hydromel at a veranda in Appian Way:



the febrific sun of August turns the nauseating fumes of Rome into a nauseating cloud.














































Macrobius the nasty writer and his deformed son.