20/06/2013 - STOVEPIPES

                Stovepipes are the baby daddy's of modern armaments. Sliding at 75 mph they empty their battlements of all stalagmites and pepper the remaining ice water in case of an insurgency. Lift it up, there's an award underneath it all, the glowing globe of a hermaphroditic skittle. It stabilises the institutionalised male as he rocks back and forth underneath the quasi-systematic monster party. He used to own microwave ovens but then the tails met his flank and shattered their way into his spinal column. It took eleven burly blokes to revoke his membership to the roof tile medical group before any suckers noticed. Instead he went to Zurich to make his way as a profiteer, a Shandy-glugging partisan with a buttload of elks in his lower portions.

                One day this chap became borderline schizophrenic as he built a line around Heathrow Airport. It had all the trademark piercings, all the tipsy rose bushes. He tilted as he unleashed a sword from his boot and ducked under the alarm honks as if they would conceal his intentions. The hostesses wrestled him to the ground with duct tape and ironic comments about his dress sense. He felt thorough aroused and demanded a midshipman be delivered to his quarters at once. He had no quarters to give or take. They walloped him from the back of his hand to the concertina toes that wavered outside his boot. He fired and flustered and forgot drug addiction was a sin in the profiteering business. The only high was a cloud you could occasionally visit just off of the next important junction wherever you were. It's gone now, of course. They all weep for it.

                The narrator left him for the roadside kerbside child protection acts to kiss the poor self-destructed whelp into submission. The strident narrator does this a lot, he just abandons a weak plotline as soon as the heat slithers up his back hairs. That's technically the fault of senior management but at least they have the audacity to string him up from the wall bars and fill his mouth with his pay, crumpled blob by crumpled blob. Bear in mind he was a wet day when he met the man with the painful tale and he'd forgotten his helmet yet again. Body doubles were proffered but he carried on regardless, scrambling through the overgrowth of shopping channels to get to a sappy spud sucker. He takes targets like his stride, sexually and in all the others.

                The narrator married a woman called Gaea despite the fact she was a working woman, a queen tycoon with green nails and black belts. She taught him the way of action stations, taught him how to be a memory satchel, taught him the very imperative nature of halting white water traffic. He lovingly calls it a wimpy giant, tainted by the sun's crafty radiation. Planes come around from all over the place to fire at his backside and thrust hot pokers into the path he is about to tread. Poor Erasmus. Again.