by Youth Worker
This is an educated article about
that bejewelled philistine The Time Smooch. Fear him. He comes around here from
time to time and that's just a lucky guess. I've a war zone of secrets going
around on unscented rollerblades in my
biological noggin, it's hard not to do background visits, not to be compelled
and, in some respects, physically attracted to them. Most of these secrets and
the visits they inspire surround the Smooch and his phantom tics. It causes me
to be spontaneous, poisoned and establishes a virtual chemical plant of
brooding which it then goes on to cut down and implode. Suffice to say it's
tender, so tender and so classy as well. A pretty woman can obtain plane
tickets at anytime of the day or so the Smooch has found. There's something
that's not so important about his regime.
He employs cold medicines as his
henchmen, often preferring the tablets and sugar pills, often opting for their
sisters. The deadly things he does to women when time is paused cannot be
expressed by anything other than the sweaty, Moorish lips he puts on to do so.
They're so transparent, you could make sarcastic limericks out of them. This
man has a hand he uses specifically to call over women implicitly. He does this
exquisitely and dolls out his malnourished love addictively. He makes love to
the adverbs and they just follow him around. It causes entire backgammon games
to crumble and develop pointless pointy noses.
There are of course many great ways
to tip off the cops to the Time Smooch's presence: you could tick them off
yourself, you could forward roll, forward roll, uppercut them; you could tidy
their desk lids, you could send Parisian demands in ovulating envelopes. The
pig fuzz peelers really couldn't give a damn how you treat them so long as they
can ascertain the frequency which the Time Smooch is broadcasting on. It's
mostly golden oldies with a few eclectic sandblaster remarks that you'd expect
from such a smarmy arabesque of a man. I mean to say that he was a man until
that fateful day that he found he could hold down time and churn it up a little
so that he can grab a girl he quite liked and stick his leathery beetroot down
their oral factors. He never goes further though, just for the sake of his
mother's pride. He does the rest for his father's astronomic disapproval.
This is a personal message for the
Time Smooch, you're going to prison and you know you're going to prison so why
don't you just come out and tell us why you never shake the girls down at the
same time. These babes, chicks and walking sticks are loaded, they always keep
stuff down their cleavage, five bob notes according to the good flicks. The bad
flicks are there to prove that time travel is innate and that womankind is some
sort of dusty keyboard but they're bad, very bad.
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