I'm a stray cigarette lighter. I'm laying around on a windowsill and at first
it was good to just lay around like this but it's quickly beginning to feel
like I've been put down here and that my owner has forgotten about me!!
No one's coming back for me!!
The plenty of downward motions it requires to operate me.
The million-haired plait of consciousness self-urticating upon
each realization that soon I'll be syncing, body and soul, with
the dust-devils on my owner's (ptuh!) dirty windowsill.
It's not an organ but an anatomical inkblot. Sour chemistry soaked it
up leaving only a bag of nails. On spinach, Popeye's perineum
was not the easiest thing in the retirement home to fold flat.
Everything's gonna be neat and sleek by midnight when the
orderlies have swept through with their chemicals save this … object.
Then it's the shop assistant's turn to communicate telepathically
with the mannequin:
In an experiment, scientists wedged cardboard
between the shop assistant and the mannequin's respective
blasts of ESP – they habitually communicated in telepathic barks –
which soon soaked into the cardboard leaving it looking like moth wings;
this digital display then appeared in the marshy fluttering:
“You look good externally. Your head doesn't look like it's
been chopped off. Boobs – yours – look good externally. Extremely.”
Then it's the mannequin's turn to communicate telepathically
with the shop assistant:
“I think my fly might be down. Especially in this gravedigger hunch,
I think certain things might begin to fall out. I'm waiting for the hemorrhages.”
Buck Rogers personified as the Darwinian dynamo
behind this sick, sick infomercial touting a new
Death Star – they're saying it doesn't feel like a
fibrous mineral to the touch, like the old Death Star.
A Brylcreemed car salesman-esque Buck Rodgers wonders:
“Could lifting the old Death Star on to and off of alcohol-soaked
foam have been responsible for its ivory bikini line?”
The emperor, one of the most Shakespearean orators in the universe, had
complained that the consoles could be “a little clicky.” It didn't reflect good on
either the owner or the maker.
“There's always room for improvement,” he says sitting on a plush divan,
directly facing a blonde woman whose head for some reason is turned
45 degrees to the left at all times. “Vader's costume is an example
of this. It looks like the cover to an IBM computer. There's only one
toggle switch to call up different menu items. No storage box or espresso machine in the chest, etc.”
The blonde woman, facing the Emperor, is looking just skew across Buck Rodger's shoulder at a piece of stage equipment against which a young man leans
twisting his finger in his ear.