08/10/2013 - I AM THE PRICE OF TOMFOOLERY

            I am the price of tomfoolery in the naked lamplight! Behold this crest! I kneaded it, proved it with sour dough! I suppose that makes a racist to thesaurus users but then they can't hold words in their head so who am I to play the pup for them? I grind my teeth, don't you know? I ground them down to a thin, wavering paste of humanist emotion. It's good to see my chomp gone, it was eyeballing me for too long and without reserve. There's  a protozoa of sardine cynicism over there, it kind of looks a bit like a sperm with its ears pricked up and its libido inhibited. I think I might've seen it locked away in one of these cupboards, the ones to your left if you look just behind you. I'm sure I wasn't the one to put it in there so it must've been one of my essays.
            You could find it cool again, in its shiny bikini and its terrible singing voice. You could wrap it up with a horror novel and it would still remain a dangerous instrument of acute torture. This is a box and it goes on for yards and yards without once looking or even seeming heavy. The beady-eyed guvnor has switched from Petrified English to Non-consummate Religious Babble. I think there was something on the telly about the rapture but I prefer to call it Judgement Day Has Its Upsides Too. Like upside your head, you cardiac ear blamer. There are so many buttons and I have to be the one who picks yours, how lucky am I, eh? You made a fine point but I'm not so passive aggressive as your wet nurse would like you to think. I'm a gentle poet who sleeps whenever his rage monster comes out and gobbles up all the white space on a page. Yum, scrummy.
            This was a very nice bar once, you know. All kinds of eye-patched individuals came in to share a tanker with sexy ladies in wheelchairs and talk a scrummy storm into folding into a simple and unassuming bed for the night. The protozoa has its brothers in that bar, or at least it did before they pulped the call sign and reduced the number of patrons. Now it's just one of those places you look inside and think what a monumental shithole. It's like a bomb's gone off in there and by gone off I mean is currently stinking the place out because it should've already blown by now but hasn't. What the fudge will happen to the flipping ploppers when my curtain call comes? The bar will close and all the hearty features will slip into my pocket and come streaming back out again with every unique breath that I choose to take. It's like I twist around and the loaded language does something to the back of my head to make it warm and sticky. Never trust the bastard with a hand cannon.