Rudy is the town's very last and yet its very best ocularist, and he has kindly requested to take your testicle back to his lab. Congratulate him, the Jackie Chan of most eccentric fusion-knuckles – putting it back in your testicle would be afforded a view through a smokestack. Curer of synesthesia, the single, kind of old-fashioned dial tone heard during lesbian sex. Inside some dude's EMINEM hoodie he'd programmed the atom of a slab of meat to ring for ten thousand years. Patron saint of the gypsy demographic, which he'd helped propel upstream in a frozen bowl of OCTAlight.
'Why, by placing a tazer gun in each tentacle of an octopus, I can - '.
'Our call center deconstructs blabbering sex minions into jawbone obscura. Disintegrating them through the monocle of foggy, short-lived meaning into a moment of not-so-faint cola.'
One who enjoys his or her nose ceremonially falcated – such is a man or woman who also enjoys balancing a spinning penis in his or her surgically exaggerated harelip. Who, by turning on the television, carburets renewable energy into flat, shiny, reflective sewage. The body is not so much a vessel of the soul as a cruelly banged-around hockey puck, nitrate and myrrh infected. While hauling out the whip, our bodies whisper: 'The beatings of life are so inclined toward electrostatic thrift store clothing rack shocks, with their own hipsterical valence...'
Stimulations with their stuffing hanging out. Speech cadences driving the call center's clients to think not of solar mullets, rather of the entire lawnmower - which like all grass-cutting implements since growing their own egos is all about appearances. Suddenly catapulted into week-old landscapes. Interaction-skirt wading into the demented.