The tech support of the 15th
Century was certainly something to see, a plagiarism of a typo on a backwards
computer with whirring cogs and retroactive singsong. The hours and the blasts
were one in the same if not for the lining of the eyes and the concentration of
chest hair and sideburns on the latter. The very tinge of the two left a sick
breath behind to fill the path of all those gentlemen who spend their
matrimonial months tampering with quasi-refractive physics for the sake of
their tie wracks and disparate personality elements. The moon did all it could
to remedy the situation but feasting on fish and chips was just to irresistible
an offer considering all the outward percentages that seemed to pile up when
the event horizon was crossed and the skinny chaps were sent out to the high
seas for patrimonial ghastliness. The transformation would have made itself a
complete cup of coffee for the fortified deep sleep. The numerical code
featured the following ephemerid tongue flicks and a few new tart saliva glands
just out of kindness for the big man on the toilet. The numerical code was this
011111111185320909 and we have the hairless receipts to prove it. Just give us
the memo and no-one gets hurt, we promise more than enough for your children’s
dangling royalty cheques, the ones that will jangle in a red flag future. As
for now, we plan to wine and dine your catering staff for the delightful
opportunity of popping a kipper on their heads whilst their fried chicken is
still being plucked. It’s a facsimile and a shiny one at that, shiny to boot,
shiny if you need to know anything about it which you so obviously don’t. I’m
just sending you this as a message to taunt you, a couple of communal
paragraphs for you to bash yourself around the head with. Why make much out of
an impression anyway?
and ofcourse the
messageboards are justlighting up andthe daily scrolldown of ourexistence is
infact matter offact and deservesmedical attention fromnow until theday you diestuck
in achildren’s classic, stuckin a novelabout love andtanks and strongoil
plantations thatseem to goon forever anda day andyet no-one seemsto give acrap
or won’twhile the numericalcode goes withoutbeing input forsome kind ofparty
song that grindsand grinds andmisses the pointof no returnwhich we allhave to
getused to somedaysoon as thestruggle goes valiantlyon and thereisn’t a cloudin
sight forus to swatdown
THEY SAY ENOUGH. THEY SAY AS
RIGHT. THEY SAY WRONG THINGS BACKWARDS. THEY SAY THAT YOU ARE WE. THEY SAY THAT
THEY ARE THEY BEING THEY. THEY ARE WEAVING A SCARF. THEY ARE A COMPASS GOING
ALL OVER THE PLACE FOR APPEARANCE’S SAKE ONLY. THEY ARE THE ALMIGHTY ANTIDOTE
TO WE. THEY ARE THE ALMIGHTY ANTIDOTE TO WHEAT AND WEEDY WEDDING TUNES. THEY
ARE THE FARCE GOING SOMEWHERE POLITE FOR A BIT. THEY ARE THE SOLDIERS TRYING
TOO MUCH. THEY ARE THE SOLDIERS. THEY ARE THE LIVING DEAD. THEY ARE YOU while
you’re at it.
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