Tuesday, November 9, 2010

XXX

Teen romance is inside a clam. S&M sex is bolted in sea water. A Russian criminal loves the cafeteria bedwetter. Says: ‘How do you do that? I have a tattoo of that and your explanation will make it meaningful. Please demonstrate how you wet your bed in cafeterias. Please give my tattoo ontological weight.’ Dick warts as a skin problem trumps the hormonal rush at Hogwarts. Walkman’s pig liver has become outdated, stubbly. We welcome the national consciousness’s invasion by hamsters on National Sex Toy Day. No other creature lives symbiotically so tightly with us. No other furry water gun lends itself to such easy wielding. ‘Sir, will I meet the terrifying shrimp in the afterlife? Is it true what the prophets say – that its badass rep will be drastically reconsidered?’ Lidless eye. How Adrien Brody proclaimed it and glamorized it and promoted it as the Hollow Implant, to contrast the profitless fertility of his niece’s ballet shoes. His niece whom he’d fucked. Twice. With his hook eye. The pianist was quoted correctly. He did say the President is an idiot. And a heckler. And an arbitrary tinkerer of the menstrual flowchart. A Twinkie cracked in half. A giraffe’s head poked out, through the white scum. Whereupon it was immediately struck by lightning. Toothpicks skewer and support the slow, sultry, understanding nod. Blazing eyes in a foam case. Car accident-proof Burka. Patrick Bateman sported it once, then his antenna bustled with strange obscene signals that transmitted down his torso and caused a bad case of itchy genitals he then used a guitar pick to alleviate, only to subsequently strut around the apartment in a cloud of Dior perfume his sunbed had earlier turned into a nauseous mist generated mostly by home movies in which a pet gets seriously hurt. For shits and giggles. Wolverine does not cope in high society. Knuckle blades sprung like an old mattress’s rusty squeaky springs, he sits on a government issue Porta-Potty shaped like a Porsche and equipped with a joystick that guides his bowel movements through high-rises when he and the Porta-Potty decide, lacklusterly, wistfully, nostalgically to go flying. A celebrity lost in a children’s pop-up book. Forced to learn and, burp-inducingly, read bullfrog typography. Forced to wrestle a miscarried cardboard pop-up fetus. Is eluded by the fetus popping back into its womb when the page is closed, leaving a pink jet contrail in its wake. The celebrity is aware of the Hollywood glitch. Knows it is there for structural purposes. Virgin Galactic sadism broadcast shamelessly in bold pink cartoon letters on a hemp flyer. The man who shat himself. The poor bastard who was the first to ever take the Virgin Galactic cruise is now known as ‘The man who shat himself.’ This calls for a revolt, thought Bigfoot. Without thinking anything subsequently. Resuming tending his garden in peace wearing a vacuous grin, his hands clad in daisy-pattered gardening gloves. Wild West joblessness remanded countless bikini wrestlers to the New Orleans French quarter. Half-naked but on the whole friendly and good-intentioned wrestling under the romantic webcam of a cracking dawn. Developing a taste for fainting at movies. Under the watchful eye of male reproductive disorders. That most Rolls Royce of bruises. What a heckler they think I am. When in fact I am spongebased. Watch. I’m gonna faint and fall and it won’t hurt. I swear one day with this talent I’ll give talk shows back their dignity. The opening act. My railway system of black teeth. Surrounded by a yellow lawn.

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