With my finger I am abusing a little pink, nipple-like nodule that has grown from my skin. Enlightening. A guttural sponge ball that with each press makes you care more about the Klingon plight. My skin has become a great platform for a popcorn wedgie. Recrudescence of a circus. Cereal aberration in bright socks – ignited by the same ray gun a sharp-minded janitor identified as the inspiration behind gonzo bathroom graffiti. No idea how I'll keep this rubber suit monster human-powered. It can make a guy explode.
A game of Nintendo in which the objective is to not allow your Thetan to die of old age in the small intestine, holding a shaky hand-held video even when scenes in the intestine become frightfully like being on a rollercoaster. The sensation of your life drastically condensed captured by the analogy of sitting in a limousine and then being teleported into a very bad neighborhood.
The sound of the Thetan squeaking out loud. Its experiences recorded Blair Witch Project-style with the jittery camera.
If you don't understand why DIY types are chronically in need of hugs before, and shortly after, birthing their mechanical innovations, one famous industrial tinkerer will answer that it's his T-Rex's heartwrenching inability to drink from a straw that generates this need.
The ultimate weapon is thronging.
The blind think the world of sight is kept from them only insofar as it exists in a cocoon – full-color spectrum reification of the cocoon's contents takes place viscerally in the paintballs the blind have instead of bellybuttons.
A special jetpack launching platform for the judgment-impaired.
A bruise or scab or little cut on your knee – for which there is unfortunately no preemptive measure against the inevitable case of band-aid shift.
Space, embracing the torrential flow of human freedom, splitting into onion rings.
Congenital heart conditions of gunslingers. Enumeration of the many ways the spectral presence in one's chest can indeed be grappled with, rather effectively, on the strip of dirt in the middle of a draw. Over a hundred accounts about eerie chest pains in notable Wild-West gunmen in one cute little anthology.
More than just a beautiful leather-bound scrapbook – an algorithm, when read backwards, that glows, Ring of Sauron-style, on the transcendental disco ball – no, soul – cached within every reader's ribcage.
In jumpsuit, now a little angrier at the world.
After the Park Board failed to warn me that corralling everything Pastoral and Rustic in one minute with a notepad and pencil, with rough sketches and little lines of poetry, can make a guy explode. I'll be so many shreds of polyester, I think – hanging from a tree.
Bedridden alligator skin, from a recumbent position holding up old acne paraphernalia for inspection. Could harnesses the occult with these – faulty wiring cemented over with the plowing technology of evangelical zeal.
In an era of mainframe computers.
Your three wishes?
Viagra fire truck.
Heritable disco ball.
Car chase foot massage.
The clone master who is hopelessly enamored of genetic roulette, a practice that allows for only one in a trillionth probability that a perfect clone would emerge from the cartoon egg in which clones are manufactured.
Who marveled lustily at the diesel condensation on the glass dome of his white rose clone, and the vile mid-air cursing of his Angry Birds clones – chuckling to himself only half-knowingly: the well mechanism attached to the edge of the denuded egg had dragged out a fire-breathing groundhog, which was cool – only someone who cloned without regard for repercussions would see something positive in that – but it did bother him that his personal signature on the genetic disability responsible for the Easter Bunny's unseemly manly swagger – and complete disinclination to hop – was missing. Verily as though it was the work of someone else.
A human he'd cloned over a thousand times now couldn't provide purchase for the spiny grapples of the well mechanism – the fetus smoothie slopped around at the bottom of the egg and looked delicious, he saw; but he'd never drink it, figuring something that didn't explicitly bear his own signature, or on which said signature was terribly blurred, perhaps from overuse, was somehow a little too disgusting to wholeheartedly call 'his'.
Videocassette saturation – lusted for by alien invaders.
Whose idea of Earth culture is a diagram of potato chips.
Chewbacca's towel suspected of involvement in manslaughter. Finethread, sentient only insofar as it 'thinks' itself no longer able to see comedy in its situation.
A nature TV presenter claimed the Tibetan environmental disaster – a rather major landslide – as being.
If it hadn't been triggered by a motorized wheelchair. The wink, after adding this, was somewhat uncalled-for.
The FedEx pennywhistle bicycle represents only half of the truth about the universe.
The bumper sticker that tried, with its caring message, to make life on earth all about the physical safety of others, representing the other half.
One thing sex offenders have going for them – at the mere twitch of a limb or sliver of facial flesh, the most amazing solar flares can afterward be seen in the locker room. Having something to do with the excess glucocorticoids they're packing in their fibers.
A Hobbit spending all his money on lacrosse gear – and in the same breath ushering in a new era of darkness for the Shire and Middle Earth proper.
No cookbook would be complete without dotted line schematics connected to hungry-looking scissors on the parts of the brontosaurus you wish to slice up and eat. No cookbook worth its salt leaves out the chapter to do with organ transplant. No cookbook neglects to explain how to first contain, then prepare, labia supernovae.
Nightmare-inducing measuring tape. Its squid system caught up in, and aligning perfectly with, a wizard's brooding multi-tasking.
Matzo vendor. Matzo scrapbook. Matzo cardboard. Matzo used to enslave and instill coherence in the hivemind. The mystery of the matzo, unsolved. Matzo tricked out as Tarot. Sexy matzo conga line. Matzo with Coca-Cola. Mortal Kombat matzo. Matzo used to make dentistry glamorous. Matzo as rocket. Black Beauty trading rocket stilettos for a pair of matzos. The domino that tried to be a matzo, and failed.