Monday, June 13, 2011

HIS COLESLAW, HER BEER CAN

No one had told her that the inspiration behind the design of
the loveseat she was sitting on with her husband was the stalking,
determined attitude of a geriatric frogman climbing walls.
Disillusionment: marmalade cratered by a beige, knurled
palate cleanser. Sharted shotgun silly putty - how its gait quickly
evolved into a humanoid nunchaku. The actress slobbering on candlelight
marked the genesis of the first cheekbone. Nearby, a wedding DJ not
widely known, his resonance a jeweled smolder. His thoughts of
brain-damaged coleslaw. Her beer can unencumbered by wild hair.
But sporting a demonic cell phone holster. Flea semen bathing in
candlelight was the body of an ill-fated vibe. Hey, was that
one of the Goonies over there – absently patting the butt of his
embryo keychain? Said of the cubed restaurant's infamous fondues:
said of the detritus remembered and sort of jammed in gastronomic lore.
Only with the cool type of autism could one fiddle a Swiss Army knife's
fish bones into position and, with stunning grace, aid in
the corpse of a smelly, sun-bleached puppet's re-animation. 

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