I've heard and spoken the name "Goldie Hawn" many times over the years, but it was only thirty seconds ago that I began to realize just how strange-sounding the surname "Hawn" is.
Hawn. Hawn. Hawn.
It's eerie-- like the forlorn call of a farm animal in the wee hours of the morning. Especially when the name is said slowly, around a mouthful of chocolate cake and Rocky Road.
Hawn. Hawn. Hawn.
It's the sound of Darth Vader's breathing. He's inside his clamshell meditation chamber, mask off, muttering a sinister mantra through lava-seared lungs and lips. Possibly with chocolate cake and Rocky Road in his mouth.
Hawn. Hawn. Hawn.
It's the sound of an angel shot through the lung by a bolt from a metaphysical crossbow. Its wings splay awkwardly; its body lies face-down in a filthy puddle next to a dumpster in a Chicago alley, the crossbow bolt protruding from between its shoulder blades.
Hawn. Hawn. Hawn.
It's the groans during sex.
Hawn. Hawn. Hawn.
It's the angry barking of a misanthropic codger who sees kids trespassing on the front lawn:
Hawn! Hawn! Hawn!
It's the mournful sound of your heart after a breakup.
Hawn. Hawn. Hawn.
The more I think about Goldie's surname, the more mystified I am by it.
Hawn. Hawn. Hawn.
The pulse of the universe.
_
Thursday, March 04, 2010
on Goldie Hawn
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1 comment:
Yeah and she's pretty darn hot looking too.
Hmm, what sound would you make while achieving orgasm as you masturbated to her picture. Hold on a minute...
Oh, it sounds like Hawn, Hawn, ahhhh, Hawwwwwwwwwwn.
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