DISHWATER DYNAMICS was the title of the paper that was
curled up in my litter box. It made for a simulation of terrible juice water
that made my tired eyes scream ruby-faced monstrosities. Mother, did I bother
the hedgerow that day! Glory be! The disks and the discs and the kaleidoscope
tribunal. It kept itself all tightly in a bowl of spaghetti in order to fool me
in my deliberate transgressions. It featured a hellish typography, the sort
that wears trilby's despite the hot weather and the distinct lack of ironical
humour. I couldn't help but say SORROW'S A
SUN TAN LOTION! I could help but proclaim myself QUIZZICAL PREDATOR TO
THE MAESTRO! Suffice to say, my haemorrhoids were acting up again and nobody
knew how to qualm or how to appease the liar's imminent musicality. It's like
silence is a better gradient than any other quotient it could possibly ever
offer for such a measly amount of money. It kept me directly away from the
speedy respite, it kept me licking the corners with blackened spittle, it kept
me like a kept woman keeps a basic principle at the bottom of her naked sock
drawer. It's a lonely business smoking pipes and putting up posters. I commend
you for even trying to reply to whatever it was she had said out of slander and
starry-eyed verity. I dropped kerosene all over that doormat and haven't even
looked back once to check it lit itself properly. Mother, my switches are
growing out of the Texan's telephone numbers. Think of it as a formula, the sort
that nobody could follow except the maths geniuses or the jinn of my gin and
tonic. I'll play away from the volume if I have to and bolt down the warts when
and if they come up for the poisonous substances that we call air. It's
sickening to think how often we oil the galaxy and how infrequent our
conspiracies become. It makes me want to say HEY, WHAT'S YOUR PROSPECTS, YOU
SILKEN-CHEEKED MARY? WHAT COULD I POSSIBLY GIVE YOU TO TRADE FOR THAT GLASS OF
LEMONADE YOU INSIST ON SPORTING. It really was quite fitting you know, last
Monday that is. Any moment now the vogue will change again and my orphanage of
possibility shall be handed off to the appropriate authorities. Maybe it's because
I'm virile, maybe it's because I grant BOONS. Then again, I could be stood like
a cowboy at a bar, chin pushed forward and moustache hanging out like nobody's
business. Glory be, I could even lose the hat in a place like that. What would
my identity be then? Maybe something of a footnote from this little booklet.
DISHWATER DYNAMICS REFERS TO THE YIELDING EFFECTS OF SUBSTANTIAL MODALITY ON
THE PEAKS AND TROUGHS OF ADRENAL GLANDS IN THE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE. Well, it
takes a cold dead wastrel to decide the logic of time and space. It takes a man
who didn't even know his place when he was a youngster, a huckster or anyone
else for that matter.
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