The toothbrush is sort of a local legend. The entanglement of Catwoman’s bulimia with her favorite feather – on screen: each gag reflex tickle, each warped restroom echo, is given a Portuguese subtitle – and in some countries the squeak of a thrift store pterodactyl.
Now the fart in the overlord’s hazmat suit expires slowly, leaving in his mouth a taste as strange as the guilt damming up in his cheeks – every inch of his pursuit turns on a Kim Jong-il Styrofoam sneaker.
Allergic: ever heard of a healthy Nazi allergic to his own vices? Killing is like suicides spun in their own direction, the happiness people died for: yeah, not private – in fact as private as the moon’s mechanical love grin.
A match thrown into my grave. My grave’s absorption of the inflammable plague. And yet poof – yeah, POOF! goes the sprawling inventory of Batman’s wiles, except I don’t take them to the grave. I’m reduced to being a gentleman in my failure. I’ll tell you who I am, Batman – I’ll tell you why me and my feline companion get sick whenever we eat out. I am the single-celled Nazi. A six-foot deep sideshow of corduroy amoeba and cognac mustache.
Ah, Batman – you hate me, I know; but dear God you’d love this one, you’d really dig, and at once find intensely ironic, the self-description of my accomplice in crime: “I am the eight-foot-six Pharaonic Barbara Streisand volleyball giant – ZWANGO!”
Fucking hell, man. I’m so bored – crash-testing, out of plain morbid curiosity, pretty expensive baubles. My precious stationery; I’ve become a stationery collector, did you know? “Sink your teeth into that inane xerox. Now lick your lips, O terrifying stapler.” Ah ... anyway. So as I was saying, after coming back from restaurants, me and my girlfriend – d’you know we need merely vacate our chairs in order to trigger a mudslide?
But to come to the point: I can bash your fucking head in with my girlfriend’s toothbrush.