Ending up looking like Alec Baldwin is a terrible crime committed this very minute by her blow-up doll. In a shark cage, but also in tiny rubber quotation marks instead of lingerie, it now feels like descending into a septic tank. Body language conveyed to the doll via a set of wavering gills. It'd be cool if there were other ways to make grime useful, she says once submerged.
I'm a spider and my garage is mega haunted, if feels like. It has this abandoned coiling staircase and everything. I am cheap, however; I embellish my web. Webs aren't supposed to consist of spandexed legs frothing in beer. I also shit in my web. It's true. Indeed, a large part of the structure flaunts the rather adorable fact that I've used chopsticks on many occasions to with rattling ninja trellises alleviate constipation. Toilet paper is always sunny.
About 2000 feet beneath the surface of the ocean a blank area is about to collapse. Scuba abortions don't send out shock waves and they don't cause a sound, they cause nothing, if not emotional distress among squid citizens who love babies – but a flavor is emitted and it's of boxing gloves.
The PEZ dispenser is a urinal with a robot hairline. I'm peeing into its rectangular lip. The dregs that swirl at the bottoms of vast blow jobs like the innumerable peanuts marching around insect mazes molded under the cover of clouds in glasses of grapefruit – these are sorted into good UFOs and not-so-good UFOs by the dispenser, later to be rapidly frisbeed out over a cool lawn in the luminous, luminous dusk when the hideous thing has been finally put to pasture.
There's something funny about the sense of 'dissolution' felt in a taco's numb spreading cuticles the instant an electrode is shafted up its spine. A sense which is immediately paired, painfully, with the realization that it would be rather hard, henceforth, to start relationships with women who are immune to tinfoil jingles levitating up their dresses.