02/05/2013 - ELLIPTICAL MISOGYNY

                Elliptical misogyny/respectable Deuteronomy, the dentist told from behind his pedestal of peddled stools. The sample case was mouthing opera to the huddled masses in a last ditch attempt to educate them through the vectors of culture. No amount of warbling could commend the crowd to do something worthwhile with their howling madness, no amount of sugar cubes could satiate their gaping cup holders. The book readers were prosecuted with the back end of a screwdriver and thrown off an MDF plank with the brute force of wristwatch technology. The only hero among the bunch shouted out, Don't be a noun/be a sextet of acronyms but the people flagellated him for his XL crimes. Deviants are tolerated in this society but only until they commit the heinous act of truth massaging. When the tips are undercut then the lies must be credible and must fit into a comely little black dress before the fag storm arises. The fags of course are cigarettes with flamboyant tendencies so please don't dare accuse me of flagrantly disregarding the community of winged frivolity. Their rubber-tipped pleasures bring the bells home for the Devonshire clotted cream communes. It really is marvellous to see how laborious they are with excitable lingos.

            What isn't adorable is the lack of professionalism expressed by the big-breasted quarter. They hog shower-time and make for poor door switches and light handles. The knobs are in bloom whenever the sunlight shines through this God forsaken quarter, the luminosity is non-refundable. I asked a spokesman on the matter and he told me, don't lay markers on circus barkers/spend days within months and make sure you utilise the minister's daughter before she reaches her sell-by date. I followed this sage advice and nothing much has done me wrong, the tails are wriggling and the scissor-tipped limbs are marching in polite unison. It's treason to not have an answer for everything when you're in this witty army. The helmets don't just pay for themselves, you know. Fathers have wallets but wallets don't grow fathers in return. We could stand here all day trading adages but novices are trying to slip around your fat anus. You put a little too much cushion in to plump out the basics. I don't blame you, I blame the cloak room and all its disaffected mirrors. They live to disassociate, disrepute and many other words starting like dis. The curtains dub over the really naughty language for the good of the primates who wouldn't understand unless you threw bananas into reactor cannons.

            The explosions of course are what set the essential people off. It makes them proud of their promiscuity, it teaches them that it's alright to not be bound by the laws of lols and that glory goes around with prissy underwear. These people I blame mostly because my yachting business won't take off without their promotion and hair-waving. There is something embedded within each follicle to make the censors go bright green with okay lights. There are ten minutes between them and the next part of somebody's fledgling game show. Why does that presenter always look like he's been climbing up a lithium mountain of his own creation? He is not deserving of mythological status, not with his body shape. Damn his glazed over humour. Wake the fuck up.

            The services come by on an adventurous tenure, to make all the red bricks salivate with intellectual insipidity. It's somehow amusing to watch the distinguished professors squabble over chicken legs and drumsticks launched into orbit around small satellite I set up in a neighbour's backyard. He, of course, was American and didn't know I was a Russian getaway driver from all the bank-robbing films he'd never seen. It's fun to torture the people who actually get up off their arses and make a decent change in the world, a decent hefty dint. It elevates one, it lifts the mortgages from red to black though how that doesn't make things worse I'll never understand nor appreciate. So long as there are flyers to be lost in buses passing by then life shall retain its little idiosyncrasies. I blame it's parentage.

            Meanwhile the villagers are husking my corn and powdering the wigs of grave misfortune. The rosary surly servitude isn't dressed in rags, not completely so don't you dare risk stereotyping or the Western gavels will all come crashing down at once. They'll make a thunderclap to rattle the cold snap and make it wet it's tiny whities in the British suppository depo. How the ringtone gloats into sand dunes whilst the rest of us pheasants do the yuletide fling. As the rose-monger once said on his death bed, 'Tis a sarcastic cheese grater/greatness cannot be flanked by such heady taglines. Home makes itself ask the questions of Erasmus' riddle-spewing machinery. We like to call it is tertiary brain, the first two being within each fabulous shoulder pad. Fashion makes fraudulent philosophers of us all! Yahoo! Ya boo sucks, brewery biatch! The time is made of rafts that never receded into the bosom of stormy seasons. We lose ourselves in the body of acute division.

            Dewey decimal troublesome catches make a pain of the very wholesome nature of our distant existential eyes. I was in vain of vainglorious love for the sake of the groomsmen who were too nifty to spare their good drinking hours. I regret nothing of bothersome singulars and characterised method acting, it only leads us to a steadier drum beat that is not just merely hampered by synthesiser music from somewhere beyond the light years of our cognitive capabilities. The dais is a dreary deliverance from workaday foot pounds, like someday we'll all become artisan physicians without the necessity of latitude. Longitude, however, is essential: it provides the perfect contrarian for our political ideology, it keeps the other hand lurking behind our hearty clockwork. The days are perhaps too difficult to manufacture but at least the foe is suitably makeshift. The dog always tilts its head to see things sideways.