Monday, March 28, 2011


a spore-borne disease spread by the medieval knight, thief, handler, and expert hider of putrid snacks in his metal battle armor

at the Dodgers game, all the women's taste buds were fitted with audio and video devices - to enable monitors a closer look at the objects placed in their mouths, and the frequency of insertions in the same orifices of found, non-culinary objects like elastic bands and the caps of soda bottles

I am raising funds to help the handsome dung beetle initiate a spectacular stalling of the giant ball of cheese currently moving across Norway, which I'm betting it would pull off not with its hind legs but with a perfunctory lick

something the agent provocateur carries with her – I don't know - smells funny; like a stuntman's secret fear of heights and doorbells, and buildings that somehow incorporate both elements

as it is so good to hang out with all the found objects collected by monitors of women's gastronomical preferences at ballgames, I will perversely caress, and then gently squash until it breaks, this beautiful silver locket

some exciting news for grease, and for scientists, who will swarm the baboon's highly evocative but ill-conceived image of you in wrestling jumpers

the raptor in YOUR underwear, in the pharmacy's dispensary, looks like he would bark madly and moonstruck at YOUR O-face

(your O-face is fueled by, and can only be affected with, blazing mindfulness)

thank you, English vomit - for being more friendly to the neon furry dashboard mascot than you've just been to my trousers and shoes and floorboard: now my artificial, lemon-scented motility will be going for miles in a direction known not to the wisest man in the land

so often serenaded very badly with a very ugly song, proving gun stores and the men who frequent and exchange gossip in them pathetic

remind me to haul out the pots and pans for the poltergeist talent show tonight, and yeah, I'm betting on Bertie, in the last episode so unfairly punished (with a near unaffordable 3000 points) for dry-humping instead of loudly clanging the rusty carapace of an old farm tractor stage prop


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