Get a move
on, formal capital, the day is out of luck and your henchmen are gathering at
the wolves at the door with their prospector mints gouged right out of their
skulls. They asked me to wish you a happy birthday and told me to see you
upstairs safely without a hair supplanted from my head to theirs to yours to
mine again. This will only lead to the creation of a surrey's contract or a
ferryman's barf bag. These are the genuine triumphs of feminism, the radical
married with the grey to make a merry diagnosis of the ill and painfully thin
extent that our life's works are ultimately pressing against. Something to get
used to with handy medical treaties snuggled up in your hairy palms all winter.
But do not despair, do not ravish me in the seventh quarter in the hopes that
I'll develop a hunch or a depiction of heavenly continuity via the contraband
methodology of cartoonists on drugs in the nineties. The first mistake anyone
made is judging the temperature of a decade with little more than a blunt axe
and lesbian lipstick. Just rattle those pots and pans and get all communist
literature out of the vacuum cleaner before the boys from the station come
round and confiscate the shit and fuck and arse lick out of it, to borrow a
selection of their own tasteful vernacular. People are weird and deserve
certificates to prove how weird they can be in public squares and without
marital attention on stick-up duty. It's like if we were all a jury, we would
all have to lay in on hourly rates and throw aside our yuck-yucks and party
hats. This is the fault of the century, that we don't get to play with our
tassels anymore, we can only hone ourselves into perfect embodiments of
discipline and disciplinary action in the workplace.
The most
exquisite torture will have to check on the corduroy situation and be ready for
tiresome little approaches involving beauty contest rebukes with sordid bagpipe
accompaniment. The thirsty headdress is out for traditional usage and won’t let
this smog pile-up go amiss and straight into the insoluble West. And what do we
do there? With plans and cheques and baccarats and the fat men who claim they
are too late for everything in these squatting pants. No time for window-fazing
when there’s jets to be flown and the air ministry to get lost in. Call the
alien directorate immediately and prepare for the end of difficult phases and
washboard tournaments. This is the cavernous act of an author gone as rotten as
bad and daddy-shaped. Completing the set is a different beast entirely but well
worth the connection vouchers. There are plenty of large and shiny bottoms to admire
in the mire of ides. Never let Nelly do anything involving germ warfare and
trifle neurosis. It’s a dance craze of middle management and musical doubles.
Why not become a genius in the room? Every room? Rev it up.
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