But some visual displays are hidden by the bikini.
An apparent flower in a balaclava!
We leave, because the sofa is looming – being a Transformer,
at one point in its metamorphosis it was just springs
and upholstery, a straight-jacketed spiral, like a fire extinguisher
running amok through a mall. Turbines for haunches. Annoying.
“It must,” she says, “at least on some level, be relaxing for a
Tourettes-afflicted ninja to deploy Play-Doh
instead of the usual throwing star.”
So we tried it out at my desk. It was a normal writing desk,
where instead of throwing stars we discovered moth fibers
damming up under the lamp. I placed my mug in it, to keep it level.
“You thought you were looking at a regular espresso machine, eh eh.”
I kept laughing even as she asked, to evade notice of the
pinball plasma of activity on my desk:
“Do coasters regenerate? My dad was an alcoholic, right? And he went
through coasters like anything.”
“Whatever process this would entail, I'm sure it would just
result in another giant fried egg.”
(I'M SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR DAD.)
The sofa was behaving normally and we were sitting on it: it was
relaxing. “Isn't it weird how certain foodstuffs make you wipe
your ass with more than the usual haste?”