It looks a bit creepy but this minivan is a particularly
sentimental hand-me-down from my pedophilic uncle.
I’m parked in my minivan in front of the Shanghai expo
where folks sound more like cicadas or firearm-carrying
nanoelectronics than backpacked, sandaled, bespectacled
expo-goers. I’m a man in the paradoxical position of
needing a backhoe to uncover the cemetery under his house,
when the cemetery under his house houses skeletons. No shit,
right? But what if you were a stainless-steel time machine
(you can get those here, too, at the expo) and you needed to
travel to a time where you got eye-tasered (you get taser guns
here, too) if you didn’t say yes to fashionable exo-plumbing?
(That liked gutting itself over your blipping technology and geeky
stainless carapace, literally spraying it with brown gut-gunk?)
Let me tell you something about plumbing that worships
itself for spraying shit from the joints just to emphasize
the moral superiority of plumbing that thinks it has nothing
to hide: it has an even greater bunker mentality than scowly
pedestrians that fail to draw distinctions between a ladybug – or a
sky that looks like a ladybug’s humped, dotted back – and some
horrible chemical aftermath; with a bunker mentality – unless
my uncle’s ostracism can’t disguise itself like a lucky sky and
cramped, bunkeresque beatings is all he can look forward to –
victims paint black and white dots all over black and white-
dotted skin disease. Currently missing a loved one? Or a pet?
You can rate your victimhood according to how much that
nocturnal tapping from the plumbing sounds like happy Morse.
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