The
vote for a proton was seconded and thirdly I doused the occupant with
firewater. It was for her own good, she hadn't brought a risk with her, silly
thing. They're all chimps when you get down to it, the plebs and the children
alike. The only way to thrust a point home is to fix it to the underside of
their skull and watch as it malfunctions into a bone shape. It's good for
frisking airline pilots and shooting hostesses round the back of a regulation
basketball hoop. Ire makes for a proud proclamation in the shrewd recesses of
my Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. It helps when I'm trapped within the confines of a
football game or some such sporty travesty. Wherever I go, I wish I was at the
opera.
Ah,
the opera! The selective hearing, the upturned legs, the wanderer's recovery!
Ah! Opera! It makes me so randy, the only thing that gets me up these days.
Such a shame I don't preserve my parent's Gentile circular nature. I said merry
goodbye to them on the yacht ride over and that was that as far as I'm concerned.
Call me an oven mitt but that was the last time I wanted to see the suckers, to
perceive the cuddly reality. It does very little to follow the same jolly old
tracks all of your life, that way doth not the professorship lie.
Giving lip to strangers is the only true way
to remain tiresome in a secular society. The drawbridge economy is on the take,
pointing wherever the trolls can't spell or trickle down. Of course, the culture
is turning particularly Slavic and that's not a fine way to book a holiday.
There, that was your doing. The train ride leaves me agog with the
possibilities. How could you possibly fuck this all up again? It sickens the
whip and all that. Berries are demanding that chopping boards enter various different
orbits just in case you screw the pooch again. Curl the tail.
You
have twenty two seconds to achieve the entire provisional score. It's striking
like a howl in a class war that time forgot. I blame the daredevils in our
yuppie theme park experience, they've been doing a damn fine job so damn fine
that very few Finnish bounty hunters are willing to climb out of the works.
It's a rutting clock headed eastward from my shattered cheekbone. It maximises
the exhaustion to nutcase proportions. They told me to sit down and behave but
I won't, I'll jump over the hurdle and make a tractor of our shared past
events. The pucks each fall forward in kind, tumble with quintessential glee.
Contrary to popular belief, there are suitable qualifications.
I
am institutionalised by comparison, by proxy. Erasmus was always the
charismatic windsock, I was never up to his often hassled standards. And his
mother, oh dear! Be thankful that such women are not frequently fortunate. Be
wary of their back ends, their terrible back ends. Beehive.
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