The Freudian, medium-rare steak is a musical
whose crescendos flies are chemically drawn to
orbit in a black mass. And a corrupt cop made of rubber invariably
sits somewhere in the audience, clapping.
The dull slapping sounds his claps make.
Back to his coffin after the show, inside,
the weird behavior of his elbow, jiggling,
as if trying to find more room,
an ancient newspaper resting on his chest – its
weird humming sound. The newspaper's.
The corrupt rubber cop is weird.
His victims have also told him so,
with an awkward laugh. Their awkward
laugh-patterns. Due, perhaps, to having inhaled
an illegal gas, which the evil cop made them inhale.
The corrupt cop who is made of rubber hates being laughed at.
We go from one dimension to another by blinking.
The dimensions are captured in triangles in the blinks,
the same triangles that form in tissues when we drop
them into a blender. In one of these dimensions,
Saatchi deemed ping pong a high art form,
praised Ice-T's echolocation abilities.
The way it deforms space. Others ascribe
this feat to the telekinetic prowess of his vomiting.
In one of these dimensions, Saatchi says the tampon gloved boxer
has revolutionized art. Others say a vaporizer
is an instrument of nihilism. In our multi-dimensional universe,
this is code for: all enemies agree with each other.
Convoluted defensive movements
aren't what you might expect from
a badass matador – but look at what's heading
for him. Just look at what's zooming in his general direction.
It might also explain why the matador is wearing
a bio-hazard suit, an old fashion accessory
from his days working for a German scientist in his laboratory:
Coming for him at speed is Donald Trump sporting some
horrible strap-on device, ball-shaped and glistening,
also wielding a pair of horrible tongs. Festering
in the corners of his small, lopsided mouth.
The matador hadn't been this afraid
since he was a German scientist's
lab assistant and had to fend off
a giant insect.