Tuesday, June 21, 2011

WIMBLEDON KARATE

The rabbi slowly fitted my head clamp. Until then, I had been
a truly disoriented person. I was kindly given sanctuary by
a vestige from my youth – a warm wet armpit fart; I had
hidden from wolves by quickly growing a forest on that 'old me's'
tongue. I'd seen the rabbi tinkering with shapeshifters, casting
logs in the flightpaths of their molecular configurations,
laughing at the karate guy on Wimbledon's
center court, his flamethrower debunked as a wooden paddle
blocking the windows of a tiny periodic table, the Queen's
answer to 3D specs when watching a jolly game of tennis –
his distraught, surprised, ranting mug a testicle emoticon
bouncing around on the clipped, fresh, dewy grass.
The rabbi carefully removed a pig bladder's left hemisphere,
a doorknob that offered access to a Ferris wheel – or
denied it by grabbing your coat sleeve. 'Now, a big butt's
center of gravity is tight-lipped,' he says. '4chan has
been looking for ways to harness this attitude to
suspend its incontinence in a magnificent shimmering arc –
your brain now, tempered by this clamp, will serve as a
gyroscope journeying through the august portals of the
aforementioned big ass. You will think yourself inside an
inflatable toaster; you will think that, in Hell, the inhabitants
are all prone to overreacting; you will also be equipped with
a Walkman' – dangles Walkman before my bulging eyes -
'you will hear it sniffing in your ears. Ignore it. Don't be
alarmed if the whole place from time to time looks like a
hurriedly abandoned meth lab.'

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