Saturday, July 2, 2011

THE NINJA AND THE POPSICLE

Back when everybody was passionately illiterate,
instead of hate mail a person got impassable kidney stones.
They were also untraversable and unclimbable.
Adding insult to injury, a despised ghost contracted
irritable bowel syndrome via a homemade, as
opposed to curio store-bought, Ouija board. Man, those
were the days ... Good, honest overuse defoliated your
toilet plunger – giving it an incredibly hot body.
If you were a surfer and decided to take up skateboarding,
your skateboard was almost sure to digest your nipples.
Dusty, crouching, sand-fingering behemoths sitting
on the sidewalks had hobbies, too: left for dead,
the potato they resuscitated would enunciate phrases of
street talk nearly indistinguishable from
pieces of the suicide bomber nearby because
their general import would essentially be a testament
to suede puke. At a Chinese restaurant, where biting your nails
would be the only item on the menu. Man...
And muscle-bound kittens hogging the karaoke stage,
until finally there was only a heap of baked cookies
presided over by a mist of ribbed, coiling headache,
would typically mark the end of a night out.
Microwaves cackled when loaded with the jewelry of
rich chicks. Sesame falling from the sky hurt
dinosaurs' eyes, eventually turning them all blind.
Dinosaur meat quenched many coffins
at the close of the Jurassic era. This one learns
in school. Sure, but in two thousand years from
now your kids are going to learn something pretty fucking
disturbing; namely, that a certain gene perverted by a combination
of pharmaceuticals would give a hermetic, mountain-dwelling
popsicle an embarrassing propensity for garish, tie-dye
hazmat suits, and would also instil in a sociable, extroverted
ninja a propensity for late-night reality TV – on which in a
stoke of fateful coincidence the hazmat-wearing popsicle
would meet the former in bloody (unfaked) combat. 

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