The Fucked-Up Butler

The arcade's furniture's on fire so everybody at

the cyber town meeting jostles for position on

the water slide cum suicide urinal. A mire of

boneheads surveyed by the clam in one eyeroll as

the Edwardian sex toy trudges water to the accompaniment of

a church bell stretching. The contraceptives he

hoarded on the space station were interchangeable

with kittens. At the touch of a button, they merged

with everybody's lymphatic tissue, ironically. Everybody calmed down.

With its crippling charm, vomit scours my muumuu,

like a great fog thrown into my innards, sleeping in

olfactory buckets-full of Walmart. Forbidding human

contact to help make karaoke holy. To the accompaniment of a time machine

idly oozing its slideshows. The dance fulfils its function as an effective cuntblock.

Luckily, my anthropomorphism is adjustable. One only tinges lettuce with abject golf.

Finding the remains of a religion at the bottom of the toaster fucks up the butler. Then it

fucks up the toaster. Toilet paper fucks elevators up.