Laughter in an arthritic sweatshirt.
Balance of human element in lymphoma.
For the continual thunder is an old hand at this, baseball cap on backwards – it is always comfortable in any itchy butthole.
Think Chucky the Demonic Doll's offensive slogan at the same time. Hustling pork around any synagog or special-ed kid playground won't cause feelings of insecurity in yourself.
This is snake oil for the modern life - our values only stimulate absurdities.
Hedonistic Sasquatch Kremlin – with his dick caught in ex-girlfriend blight.
Fraying is one of his many talents.
How many elaborate traps configured of tiny chicken bones does the subconscious mind lay for the unsuspecting conscious mind?
Prom meltdown depicted exquisitely on a 3D chart.
The pervy drunkard who fingers gravestones in which woodpeckers aim to hole up future criminals and maladroits has one Achilles heel - he balks at the fermentation of vegetables.
Radish in particular can sense fear.
How to continue making coffee if you've already fucked up every important step in making the morning's first cup of, incredibly important coffee.
A ghost town that annually celebrates the time Batman came cruising through on a Segway. On which the latter's vigilantic sense of purpose apparently thrives most pungently.
I.e. on a Segway.
If you speak ill of the Beard, this is what's in store for you:
History giving you a piece of its mind.
A high-pitched burp.
You could not possibly exaggerate the unforgettable gastric sirens that, in protestation, instantly sounded. A gathering of deflating fossils beneath a third layer of green sedge - the eerie whistling emanations of decomposition.
Beginning to finally understand – and learning instantly to speak – Neolithic street slang.
Survivors of the apocalypse, why do we take pictures of driverless tractors?
Whence this morbidity?
Every time I leave a chair, a massive, glossy, colored decal is left by my buttocks on the chair's seat -
'Vote Republican,' it says.
How peeping Toms market to boring old hags who might otherwise never have heard of them or thought it likely to need their attentions.
They pitch marquee tents below said hags' bedroom windows and sell merchandise on the theme of Peeping Tommery – T-shirts, mugs, stickers, placemats, mousepads. Occasionally from these tents, reclining lacklusterly back on a fold-up chair and scratching their balls/beards/bellies, reciting poetry heavy with propagandic import over a bullhorn.
Narrow road wending through pretty, patchwork farmlands. Red, tinted-windowed, MAG-wheeled Ford Cortina speeding along purposefully.
Thus nature launches the opening of its very own spectacularium.
The object of murderous desire, longevity will soon be verboten.
When we're all dead, it will seem like mere whimsy.
Apparently, diabetic sex addicts have been doing themselves in – pussies don't have frosting. Only white noise 'glazes' the female mons pubis like a blanket of department store static. Basically, trying to brook a false allure of this kind into sexual fulfillment activates a pleasure principle that causes the heads of esp. diabetics to explode.
Its instrumentation choking on a ball of hair.
The hairclip that gained sentience nearly decapitated her.
I've been a doctor for twenty years. In all that time, I've been eyeballed critically by my young assistants only once when performing a vasectomy – and that was in a dream. The 'finally, he gets something wrong' look. It torments me. The dream image is incredibly vivid in memory, still. Those looks. My confidence hasn't been bruised as such, but since then during all my vasectomies I keep a look out for it.
It is in that dream of mine in which the patient's crotch writhed with pale transparent tentacles and getting my scalpel to them was incredibly difficult.
Normally, vasectomies aren't this intricate: no way would my brow ever break out in beads of anxious perspiration the way it did during that procedure.
Nevertheless, I keep a low constant subconscious scan going at all times, now, during these procedures – for those critical little sneers on my young assistants' faces.
Why people are so yard-sale obsessed – since that teleportation device was sold and tried out on site, and people waited in vain for the human remains to return, which whispered from the beyond: 'It isn't over yet. I will return as a collection and categorization of my parts.'
But then never did. The diabolical nature of the wait soon gave way to boredom as shoppers and browsers at the yard sale became increasingly terrorized by notions of which they had no understanding.
'I reached second base and farted in the shower simultaneously,' came the bubbly-lipped voice. 'At least, the medium through which I am being teleported feels like being inside a shower. In which I'd farted. And then felt my hands immediately placed on two objects I have now with certainty ascertained were, have been, and perhaps still are, breasts.'
'I am now a snuff film traveling around the sun.'
'I wish I had GPS on this thing.'
A woman who'd been browsing porcelain plates and cups was then reckoned to have gone missing. She would not have been thought missing had the voice from beyond, coming at them through shower vortices, fart-powered & plowing through dimensions of roiling space, hadn't mentioned the word 'breasts,' in conjunction with 'shower.'
For when she was last seen, she had been wearing a shower curtain. Her clothes: she was not wearing normal clothes. Browsing the cups and plates at the yard sale. Scratching her chin ruminatively. Polythene, sixties flower-patterned shower curtain for a dress.
Second base shower fart. Misplaced erotic fantasies.
A novelty transport medium. Prototype.
Predecessor of the yet-to-be invented bath turd.