If there's one thing I won't take lying down it would have to be a shower. I simply won't just sit there and take it. If I did, I'd say that I much prefer baths to showers. The beauty of a bath, apart from the way the Turks take them, is that there's never any danger of dropping the slippery-scented bar of animal fat. Barring that, there's always the joy of soaking in your own snake-sauce that some seem to see as so much satisfaction. People of all walks of death will eventually come to rest horizontally. Being perpendicular to the ground is no way to take a bath. Sitting down in the shower is just as erroneous. On the condition that you keep it to yourself, I'll tell you how you can tell a Wella woman. It's by the way she wears down her hair until she's as bold as a liar. Lying in the shower and standing in the bath, fun; Rabelais and El Greco: equal.
If there was one thing that Cervantes the Spaniard didn't know it was how much alike he and El Greco the Spaniard are. You could throw a blanket over their output and have a picnic on a field day. To say that the writings of El Greco and the paintings of Cervantes were identical except for the sense that they are appreciated through sounds perfectly reasonable. Defecating in a jam jar and spreading it on your toast doesn't. The number of times that I'd say you can't compare art and lit properly without slipping into your pants in a trance would be manifestly numerous. There's no denying the serious humour of both these natural phenomenons. To equate slipping into your pants with fingering a supect is ample evidence of booby-traps. I'd always say one shouldn't look at Cervantes without reading El Greco; if I was right in the head. As the headless horseman told his stable-hands: "Hold steedy." There are many ways to scan a cat and this is just one of them. El Greco and Cervantes: equal.
El Greco, the Spanish artist, was a greek with a whopping arm and a sizeable balance. It's hard to say if Salvador Dali, the darling of his mother, ever really knew his mother. More likely is it that he knew El Greco. In knowing himself, as he surely might have, he must have known that he might have been the verso to El Greco's rectum. His own recto was never quite right as you can see by the scale of his fish. If you don't care that his moustache was not a beard, as surely as El Greco's was, then look no further than your ownership of personal affects. Now I could prattle on all day about how and why they were as they were and are as they are but nothing can quite say it like: El Greco and Salvador Dali: opposite. To prove my point I would have you reflect upon the various, and quite tangible, aspects of their art. In a sense they were of the same mind on many hinges.
Norm
Mal
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