26/06/2013 - VAPID MARY

Vapid Maddy and her ghastly ghostly foreclosure: she let me down, she let me down. Story has it; she made men despair frequently and without rebuttal. It was her party trick with the ironing bowl that did wonders. Mister Great Big Nobody from the No-Man’s Land, he built a farm and named it after her. After Vapid Mary and her quadruped sheep fetish.

Then I met Samantha, the ranting wriggly collector of scimitars. She jousted on weekends which kept me safely under wraps, me being the erstwhile cabin boy. It laid out the newspaper pipe and swam through the current, against the current to find the truly gobsmacked property agent with his deadly keys. But we should be so lucky. We ended up with the invisible man on Hepatitis H. My knee felt like it had been shot out of a cannon and reattached on entry. I kept the brook flowing nicely though, I kept the train from slicing through its delightful undertones. Judging from the last droplet it had something of the quaver to it. Piquant in a toggle coat, just like the screenwriter and his wife the director of photography. She’s a slut and he’s a hindrance. The very prospect of them coming round to visit keeps me on my toes like a day in a Vietnamese prison. The worst ones are outside in the cool November air. That’s the way they got to me, that is the way they blooded me. How portentously I thought that night.

Erasmus knows of Vapid Maddy but the two have never shared a shower together. Keep him in the public conscious, escaped and proudly dictated: that’s what I always say. I said yes to the fire of his spunk and no to the chill of her shaving cream. Hells and bones to Vapid Maddy, that flapping varmint. All the live long day. Every chance I get to fly and make pretend I’m a super powered runaway.

Pink shirts are a prison, her pink shirts being the hardest to cope with. On your feet, I told her but she went off the shallow end and spat in my guard’s sharp featured face. She didn’t even promote the clock, she ate it down to the downsized applications but she never once promoted it like the damned thing deserved. I called the machine shop and brought her to the yard for her sins to be laughed away, she commanded that I stop wearing the warden as a poncho and leave her to her spaghetti breakfasts. I felt such pressure that I had to comply. Rolled up carpets make me kneel all over the place, shades or no shades. At least the handlebars are a consistent part of the diet, at least the rubber told me not to worry. It’s almost as if it knew me well enough to orchestrate me into its elaborate robbery plans. The Spaniard minions welcomed me like a brother but all our eyes remained stuck to the undercarriage of Vapid Maddy. And her kids.