17/06/2014 - THE RESEARCH ASSISTANTS

The research assistants stopped coming back. We’re all waiting for the filming to stop and get up off the floor while hour lasts which will probably shit out Inuit legs minus the knees. All the guys return to the gates while all the girls snap their runner beans in half because they’ve actually been going to Lisbon. This is just a matter of time, a horror movie that is super-jazzed and unerringly discussed by emergency announcements that stand up to security bags. Weird packages will react to the despondency of obrigado. Is that a thing? Correction of the masculine to feminine. The boarding of a plane to some exploitative tabloid paper, somewhere between the staples and the fold.

It took a while to become properly frustrated but we’re all finally here with limbs intact within the upper 70s. When you get to the weak internet connection you jam it up the weighing scales and profess your love to the Countess of Buffer Zones. She will piece together what is left of your foreskin and prepare the childish shed cells for a rocket ride along with the prearranged disservice. Making wine in a pickup truck due to obligation is exactly the way to pay lip service to the crappy home video. Homme. This is where it’s at, a grovelling apology to the cranky vacation. Not a matter for the stop-start Gods, they just have a gate and a timer that keeps shorting out and emigrating to the endless carry-on. This is pretty much a moronic story as crazy as it will ever rise above the bar with spongy fingers. A true embarrassment on the bed sheet.

Strike out against the sewing expedition, a flagrant reduction of turbulence in the bursar’s bedroom. I’m going to call this case closed, the Finnish destination. She says to me ten minutes passed one and wouldn’t take it lying down on the green bridge to set the updated fire of backlights and while you went to a little small-out competition. An umbrella snags on wasps with ice cream precision. We’re getting lunch for the eggy brickmen and their appalling rancour. Reasons why could just go on for ages.

                        Let’s jettison a few: plastic bags wiring ships incorrectly, blue screens being synonymous with death, Electropop concerts that rain with decrypted information, underpants covered in cream cracker juice, so many things without the word things in them, the lines on a pale bit of wood, Nazareth, the state of taxi services created within a feverish product placement advert, a queasy stomach that goes on denied, a Grade-A grape, a Hollywood sign that isn’t the Hollywood sign. More than enough. Less than a little lucrative.

Could we perhaps train our researchers a little harder, put them through their paces a little? Undress them with righteous boredom? Activate the watches and their pet wretches into cold night’s eviction? I’m trying, you’re altering too much for me to handle. I’ve got to hold on to something. The cells and the rancour out here.