A suckle punch to the grufft. Two minichikins cubbled in a versnickt, one had the cloak of invisibility, the other had eyes of stony stoicism. It wasn’t for me to awaken and cradle, but instead for them to bawl and squeal in their sty until, up from slumber, I would muster an Ouzi for every shouldier, green as the toys that led him to the bleak forest wherein buckets of pain would hydra the sky and rain down upon the Coolies and the Chillies and the Cadres alike. But who gave me the arms to touch the sun? Was it Chris Cringle, a jellovial old shoal pernicious and preconchious against the weaves of dunn light surfing the crests she created? Perhaps, in a melancholy of chestnuts encrusted with panko, awarming up the art of warts in the ‘art of ‘earts with a binaural ear to China and Iran. Iraniacs of straight-jacketed booths, clandestine in the boroughs of Theranos, poking a stylus upward to puncture the heavens until, from Horrorsgard to Asheville, the wroth of the loth was breathed in a fiery swarm that napalmed the #SaveTheChildren campaign into obloviate, whincefrom the stalagmitarions (always looking down on the little guy, just a scurrilous crevice of pall) twenty-seven kraken deep in the Whorled Wide Mannekin Pis—an eddy from which no simple crab could crawl.
But Buddy McKlackergenough was no ordinary crab, no sir! He was the type that would get bursitis from playing Wii Tennis. Controller in claw, he would deftly negotiate landmines of turtle-bombs, the like he’d seen on the whoretorn beaches of NoManDies, on the Francophile turnabouts, where cigarettes become candy and bonnets become hives of bees exploding out of driftwood. And Calumny. What does she think of all this? Rumpled in her fluff-stained sweatpants and baskrobe loosely tucked about her waywardest, parts of her anatomy still reminiscing over olden days when she turnt a head, and twisted a head and got a head to bow before her as queen of the eve as she was. And undone was all the chastity she’d been asked to meticulously craft an illusion around, as if she ever expected to drop its dowry on a dime, but instead a fortune. To cast lots with the powerful among us, with the towering heads of Gods and Cretins murkily compressed into one all-reaching totem that stretches the eye from the weeniest lepton to the lips of the universe, which, when parted, unveil the final secret to the deafened man-kind – deafened by their lust for lust, and their powerful lust for power, and the powerlustness. All wrapped inside a sausage of flesh, from whom the ideals of society flow. The river of blood flows to the river of rigor. Maybe C’s, a.k.a. Average Joenathon, may only be able to snatch a pebble from her earth and whip it a ways to the ends of a receiver, but that’s good enough for God and Country. For whom all good things were made, in whose image, tall white men were made.
I could go on. And someone once asked me to, and therefore you shall all suffer. If only I could command your presence, and require you to listen. Truth is, were that so, I would probably say very different things in a language you would understand. But i understand that I am confined to this lonely little hovel in the universe of the internet, and so, instead, I spout disregardable acts of troof, to be treated as such.