Reanimated two hours ago.
Oops, but now dead again.
For the hoarder it is a pretty big leap, in terms of the reach and scope of his hoarding.
Kidney stones stacked up densely in his own urethral pipes marked the last great feat in pointless collecting and storage - today hybridizing Jane Fonda with frog legs and trapping her peace of mind in an old tire along with countless Tic Tacs instead of Styrofoam pellets represents the blazing extent to which Alfred has evolved as a hoarder.
The mundane. I.e. that which we love and cannot do without. The fabric of which used to merely constitute the trappings of this haunted orphanage, our home – before the drama, powerhosed by some authorial hosepipe and washing across the mundane like some peeing umbrella, of a romance novel began to seep through its porous boundaries, not just mixing with the mundane but, because the ghosts of children apparently reacted with the invasive vibes like little aggressive kernels of flocculent, curdled the atmosphere and clogged up the faucets and curtain runners and every pivot and joint.
And at the end proving very hard to flush out indeed.
So let me tell you I don't believe anything as simple as skin cells and peeled sooty fingerprints and, like, pubes is harvested, wittingly, by this motel room – for why would whatever has dammed up here over the years lead to involuntary, spastic crying jags, or the jaws of whoever chances to get any of it caught between them – why would they begin to involuntarily and gnashingly, like, chew on it?
Think of it as onion rings – do not take it for what it really is.
The cumulative dregs of motel circumcision.
Can you see that the praying mantis is on Dancing With The Stars?
So make our friendship work, forklift.
The tornado extracting the toothache.
And other, nonrelated outdoor games.
Croquet impact. Oof!
Scouting for contrast – as any lipreader for the ethereal openmouthed.
On nitrous oxide, one runs like a girl. Murder scene progressively.
Fun, broken-bone sightings – very clogged-rollerskate.
Half-formed minutes, hours, months, decades – passed on to the time bomb's offspring.
There was flour on the doorknob and a boxing glove was attempting to open the door. And that was all.
The curse Ivan, the temperate and, some might say, 'nice' member of the pop duo 'Hay Fever,' brought on him and Zelda, the other member, if she didn't stop complaining about being a mere, hay-reinforced paper-mache being and start taking their uniqueness among other creatures, particularly pop singers, as a type of strength – and in the process, indirectly, stop getting on his nerves.
A curse in fact brought on the entire, substantial, adoring body of fans choosing to visit them at the special paper-mache junkyard the duo had yet to be remanded to after a tragic, maiming event leading directly from Zelda's crippling poor self-image:
a) the duo themselves would be hauled in front of the wheel of a speeding car by Zelda, yanking Ivan after her into the path of the wheel in demonstration of how 'stupidly brittle [they were]'
b) upon seeing them at the junkyard, the emotions of every fan would serve for them as a booby-trap of consuming, indeed implosive – suspiciously 'hay feverish' – sniffles.
Although it might be considered a slight overreaction – even for a sufferer of synesthesia who doesn't like sax solos a hell of a lot. A sufferer of synesthesia on acid who doesn't like sax solos a hell of a lot. What a buzzkill to him looks/sounds/smells/feels like.
He sees the topography of each million-knurled cough squeezing through the mouth of the sax; he hears the tubes carrying away his cerebrospinal fluid to the girl at the opposite end of the bar; he smells her vagina. His synesthesia has fucked up right there. But wait.
Oh he feels its slow erosion … Let's move on.
Painfully, red flecks passed into the circuit of roots beneath the ground because the woodpecker's lung capacity allowed for a bag of ground meat to be emptied into them and passed on, with vigorous pecking, to the carnivorous earth.
The bird which in a sense saved all of our lives – although quivering gratitude goes out to the earth itself for agreeing to this tradeoff.
Harbinger of the housekeeper: the rattle in the backdoor lock. Harbinger of all the smaller versions of the housekeeper coagulated into an ELEPHANTINE housekeeper: the rattle at my crib's gate's lock.
Harbinger of the ELEPHANTINE housekeeper force-serving me a ream of continuous pasta: the rattle in my large intestine, to whom the truck-sized silicone gun, ripped out from behind the back of the ELEPHANTINE housekeeper with a jaunty 'ta-daaa', doesn't bode well.
Diaper lightning rod.
Plus armor technology to withstand golf course fragments colliding into your baby after lightning hits it – after digging its electro-blue fingers into the grass and, in an act of affront felt by admittedly the minority of lightning bolts, starts pelting the baby with dirt.
An organ known as 'heart' and a more special organ known as 'heartbroken.' The last one retains moisture and heat well, because its insulation is made of twigs.
That snap and crack when you sit in an awkward position.
Pretty sure that apart from being an oval kinked at the sides, yawning carries a charge. Go ahead and yawn – then stick your finger into the oval and feel the molecules bristling. Things come flying toward the finger, possibly sticking to it.
Those who live off trash have surely come upon items, items qualifying as trash, battered in nameless gunky substances.
Some of these substances which even defy description. These findings are almost certain to have occurred.
Syphilis surprisingly eschewed the hive-mind approach to consciousness when it became sentient.
Opting instead for some kind of boneheaded individuality with influences from such schools of thought as 'neo-solipsism' – for the first time since its rise to articulacy conveying into our genital microphones its plan to disprove our 'inferior no-man-is-an-island dogma.'
Promising, in the tone of a genuine threat, a good counter-theory by the end of the following month.
The trapeze artist air-cooled via runnels of termites and kept in a perfect mummified state by the eggs of desiccant silica hatched by their queen – sandwiched between the mattresses of a cackling old lady.
The dark secret to finding love: the polite refusal to maim the person in front of you in the post office queue.
'Dark,' since this very act of refusal goes in tandem with daubing oneself in fake blood.
With his magnificent exertions to escape the ropes with which he had been tied down to a chair by his kidnapper, he decadently cranks out sexual poses, grunts, and phrases encouraging the usage of prostitution, drugs, and fetish toys.
Hey, you guys should totally use my strong smell to attack the Grim Reaper –
Catalyst not of decay but of unblinking durability. I'm not kidding! First, though – you guys should allow me to come a little closer. Getting tired of shouting like this the whole time.
Tried and trusted means by which Bushmen in arid climes have down the ages cultivated drinking water:
By placing fire kindling under the bottom of a man they've taken hostage – extracting water from him either with the technique of the bluff, or by actually setting the kindling alight.
Bugs fighting in a jar produce subsonic, even-waved pulses, which when severed with a carving knife drip delicious water.
By holding a cup under an air-conditioner.
My dad agreed to take up residence in an asylum only on grounds that they anchored his bedpost to the wall not with bolts or chains, but with 'all [his] son's incredible accomplishments, bwahahahaha' – the guffaws issued subsequently in relish of the possibility that with this condition fulfilled, it wouldn't be hard for him to nevertheless move the bed away from the wall and with fellow patients play his favorite game of bed polo.
Sick from the previous night's drinking, Nazi scientist Heinrich Hummel at face level regarded the basketball-sized globe of antimatter they'd trapped and converted into the lab's mascot, cooing at it and talking as though to a child or a cute animal.
The two feet of clear, safe distance between him and the ball of antimatter next filling with a thick stream of vomit.
At the end of which stream, not so surprisingly, his barf went amazingly rogue.
Picking my nose all hardboiled egg on the first date.
A world that knows no aging, only the degradability of hair color. A world where crime scene tape doesn't mean a crime had been committed, but that an accident – orchestrated of course by nature and/or God – had occurred, e.g. a tree branch had broken off and landed on someone's head, i.e. the tree had committed the crime. Hence the crime scene tape.
Yes, and a world in which a scalpel cannot remove a tumor – because, here, scalpels have no access to the nonexistent.
YES! A world in which anything ghastly happening translates into sensory inputs that downright terrorize us. So nothing ghastly happens in this world. We bloody well don't like to be terrorized.
And we kind of like it that over time our hair color fades.
Excuse me but since when have we all been indoctrinated into believing that the study of accident proneness is an exact science? Do you think anyone who's accident prone, including Kurt here, exactly PLANS to bumble their way around this or that object or obstacle? I sure as hell don't THINK so...
A member of this MIT science team, known for her hissy fits, who prior to this had been in the process of placing a miniature teacup before their test subject – which she hoped the test subject, an opossum named Kurt, would knock over – said.
Boba Fett snatched his twin in the womb, painlessly and away. The latter to grow up to become inscrutable, as if not exactly there.
Mentally and physically.
Punk brainwashed as an only child – dye apparatus squatting prettily on head.
'Fraid it might blow off all that fat?
If the gluttonous is so … 'FIRE-RESISTANT,' why hide cowering back there after – very kindly, I must say – consenting to this bit of old-timey natural remedy?
A bit of Momma's Mortar?
For an advertising agency of its repute, it raised a couple of eyebrows when it brought out its proposal for the Burger King's new drive thru mechanism:
It featured a pair of lips twitching. Then the (rather rough) insertion of a ball gag. The screen next fading to black with only the mumbles of the gagged person heard.
Suddenly the blackness lifts – giving way to a shot of the rear window of an automobile. The glass cracked in fine fragments. The camera panning out to reveal two red posts, between which the car has been forcibly inserted. Thereby causing all the windows to break and the car itself to be squeezed into the form of an hourglass.
Fade to black.
Then we see a man, dressed in Burger King overalls, hosing down the area between the posts, obviously the same posts as before, hosing the macadam between the posts and when the camera zooms in – only then do we see what it is he's hosing the area clean of: blood.
But even before the traumatizing elucidation, we subconsciously realize a massacre of some sort had taken place there. Which subconscious awareness is then forthright replaced by the Burger King logo – showing large and obtrusively on our TV sets – and we never again remember the massacre.
Or the ball gag, for that matter.
They're surely still standing there: those street signs.
I can't see them but I can feel them. I feel their presence. Getting dimmer. Can we turn back and go see?
This is a brand-new pacemaker!