Monday, May 30, 2011

THE CASE OF THE BROKEN PARKING METER

Cartoon denizens have been buried alive in this mini-golf slum. One of them pierced their thigh on a splinter – actually it was a diseased earthworm. The saddest sight was a type of vegetable that grew only in sandstorms. How it waxed nostalgic about its weird growing pains! The last one (i.e. the last growing pain) happened little less than two hours before.

Since I'd incurred dementia from my visit to Ikea, I had the courage to stand up – still ankle-deep – and sketch in the little points booklet the metrics of a dry handjob. A bald head across which traipsed a special algorithm – the mind thinks the vibrations are phantom brush strokes, but to be spray-tanned by shrapnel is very real.

One's heartbeat soaked in oatmeal tumors.

The picture I drew turned out to be an infographic about gerbils, and how if you forced them to wear sweatpants, the latter would constantly leak tea. Apparently useless in all other respects, gerbils – like other vermin – can play the flute if you break one of their legs. They play the flute with that broken leg.

The shovel that fell to Mars realized it would be in for a big surprise, if one day it gathered the strength and the will to randomly start digging somewhere. It would turn evil, and it would take its chosen dark path too literally; it would miss what surgeons call the 'glow feature' of every clean, orthodox appendectomy – and in a bout of hotheadedness, it would encounter millions of black, shattering bubbles. None of them causing even the slightest spark when blinking out. Surprising the ever-living crap out of the shovel.

Fake orgasms by keeping deep in your vagina and/or penis bags of pus retrieved from an infected eye and/or ear wound. The bags when rupturing would scream in ecstasy, would, like an exposed brain, drool an equal amount of blank, brilliant austerity.

Truth.

My bird's personality disorder, in its fingernail birdhouse - measuring time in terms of the amount of lopped off fingers of prior owners – and according to the little parking meter in there with it, from which it believes it needs to spend fifty more years picking chewing gum, before the meter's dial would finally budge.

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