14/04/2013 - THE DEVIL HAS A GRAND SCHEME OF THINKING

            The devil has a grand scheme of thinking that requires the person in question to throw themselves hither and thither without qualification and without remorse. It sort of looks a little like this, only less text-based and more factual. My weight has nothing to salvage from such vile and vapid pelvic thrusts so I'm afraid that I won't be gaining anything with you for the time being. Blame the wench from across the parlour, she stole my mojo and fed it to the peacock panther kings. Sometimes it doesn't pay to get out your yo-yos for the friendship network, especially with all the bureaucracy going on. It's perfectly mindless and reduces midriffs to even lower positions. We drink concoctions here just to forget about the temperature of the mangled climate, we down them when we don't feel as appealing as we ultimately are to the aardvark community. Mischief does all kinds of things to the genitalia. The dreams that come from ingestion, oh the dreamy dreams of dreaming! How putrid and cuddly! My, my!

            Lie down and the whole world takes five for a micro-nap. It is surely an exercise in not being nice to everybody you meet wearing a bowler hat or a bicycle pump. They can be decorative, don't you know, they can be. Madcap dramas are like dwellings in the trouser department of most discount store: a furry equivalence. They've had so many warnings and so few squirts of hypodermic luncheons. The rampage is filled to the brim with Kurdish keys and Polish dashes and sometimes a few Eastern European majesties. It's fun how it ruffles to melding pot's feathery head, it's fun how queasy it makes our peoples look in spite of themselves and all their principles. Don't get me wrong, I regard the world with endless disgust but at least I put on a sunny hat to ward off the doldrums for a while. Don't touch that piano: that's where I keep the ones that land straight in my lap. At least the vampires are coming to wipe away the rest of the ice cream van killers, we should sit back and watch their battles with wafers. The tables are rising against the nameless heroes simply because he chooses to ride a horse instead of a noble sturdy trumpet knife. They have legs these days, really rather modern when you think about it.

            The bullets are not as sleepless as we'd hope. Erasmus teaches them in whispers to rumple the carpet and make grumbles out of the cordite friction. Mothers have never seen such vengeance since the days of the brilliant resistance to individual thought processing. It's sheer cognisance without all the namby-pamby crudity that we've come to expect of the oncoming famines. As soon as you get the lead out, you bring the tigers out for their sugary treats. Give them the whole cone or they'll paw at you until your down to your slacks and regretting ever wearing strobes of socket puppets. They're vicious.