Octopussy?

RSJS writes:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/south_asia/4412417.stm

“Author Sunil Gangopadhyay was quoted in a newspaper saying that he was sexually aroused by an idol of the Hindu goddess of learning, Saraswati.”

Sadly this chap is not quoted as saying “The bitch was hot”. That would have made my day. Because frankly Saraswati is a hot bitch, with four arms allowing her to slap all of one’s cheeks at once while explaining in a shriek that no-one gets to twaddle her halibut until marriage. Or maybe cave one’s skull in with a sitar or four… It’d be worth it, though. I mean: smart chicks are sexy. And she’s all set up to pull off her Nana Mouskouri glasses, toss back her head and do the whole Timotei head-bobbing hair-cascading take-your-eye-out-with-a-split-end thang. Methinks she needs to lose the sideburns so she stops looking like a 1950s crooner, but apart from that she’s one foxy deity and can heathen me up any day. Especially Friday for Catholic reasons I can’t bring myself to write…

That said, I’d have been more motivated to read this author’s work if he’d admitted to sucking Ganesha’s trunk while Kali tickles his colon in some theological anthropomorphic graven-idol spitroast extravaganza. If you’re going to be iconoclastic one has to be flashy. Every Suicide Girl or Gothic Slut has crammed a crucifix in her bald crotch for a photo op in lubricated Linda Blair appreciation, every half-arsed martial artist has made a Throwing Star of David in metalwork class, and Elder Gods are now plush. It’s passé, it’s old hat, we need new and fouler ways of horrifying the smug monkeys with their gazes fixed on eternity and their feet of clay kicking the unraptured wretches while they’re down… Somebodyt get jiggy with the Pope’s gaping throat-hole, that’d do it. What a way to go, pummelled into paste by the massed mitres and censers of a million Italians… a bit of blood (let’s see them get THOSE stains out of his Holiness’ pyjamas) a wet slapping sound or two and bing, you’d be immediately escorted to the VIP level of hell for that one. Old Nick bringing you Havana cigars rolled in the tanned thighs of Cuban maidens, cognac, Scientologist cock-holsters… Glorious. Anyone want to sponsor me for a Trans-Atlantic Papal Tracheotomy Tryst?.