Friday, December 10, 2010


My home collection is a veritable monument to the subversion of the Neo-Bong, a breed of new dope smokers who smoke with government permission and have a choice between fashionable designer bongs from Omega to Louis Vitton to Diesel to Esprit to Ed motherfucking Hardy. Nothing is placed here without permission from the thoughts happening between my Mars Muffs – simple ear muffins I bought and suped up to resemble high-tech bathplugs. I never smoke without them because they look cool and keep my thoughts from escaping and contaminating the street decor outside. While I may wear Martian earplugs, I no longer sell Martian bongs, nor for reactionary reasons display them on the pavement on a rickety fold-up table. But in my Martian Attack Car – it was bought on; oh, and it also attacks anything in sight – I traveled to the Yup! Groceries rendezvous, located in the nastiest public swamp, which the public consciousness sinks into on a continual basis but smartly pokes its head out again in anticipation of waking up next to you. 

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