The mime is apparently doing the bazooka-holding stance right now.
A weapon made of air – its turbine's heartburn consists
of pencil shavings. You, supermarket smudge. You, the humidity
of a nipple. On a live, televised, high-speed chase of a wandering peanut.
Oh: I've been seen in my underwear. By my pet hamster. It does
yoga, and allows me to observe its special entrails.
I call them yoga entrails.
Such care administered by the young pretty cashier on the
grinning crocodile's cut finger. Its blood drips on her hand,
and you can see now that if she were a pan,
she'd be cookie dough-resistant. A poseur's psychopathy
in the comic strip that famously featured the first
tentacle-wedgie. And Viagra that caused spaghetti to rape.
And I was sold a used breast implant by the same god
that made a special new hell in a Ziploc bag for my fish.
Asshole urine is a miracle, asshole. Hijack hijack hijack.
The mime's doing this right now; putatively washing a window.