21/06/13 - THUS SPAKE THE WILD CHILD

            Thus spake the wild child that lives in my sock drawer. His doctrine is sound and scummy to within a remainder of illustrated logic. The endemic that pokes out of his pocket is nothing to worry about, it's a gay outing for the conceived and flighty with no better hobbies to bother about. The timid ones are kneeling and preening and sending answers to avoid the problem. It's all about stubbly violence, gritted teeth and Bolivian knees. Their mothers got vertigo and bastardised their offspring with the dexterity of a mayfly. The angles came down around them all, the occupants of this tired scenario, and localised the potent threat to a decimal points. There is a gauntlet that can be found in the difference but who really cares to duck down to reach for it. It's covered in eggs, all slimy and wretched.          Loose and all out for control, the wild child smote Erasmus on the back of the throat just to see what the aftershock looks like. It was scarcely disastrous but at least the remote didn't slam through the table this time. Americanised vibrations scupper these harpies, broil them out of the water, out of the rock pool. We might have crabs but we definitely have crabbiness. Lemonade is all we energise because that is all we ever need to talk about. Our serious lips bump gristles and hope we're not suggesting a new wave orchestra movement, the sort that involves nemeses with neat beards and Mardi Gras appendectomies. The wild child gnashed many teeth but not his own, mostly because it wasn't his due. Thank heavens for appointments with guilt and not the guilty. It's hard to turn somebody down if they paved the way with street magic and little else. It's a game of politicking that rarely pans out well for the dissident distributor. Such long and careless sax solos.

            They signed the death certificate instead and made a song and dance of the way the pen lid was balanced. Little did they know that exactly how it was effected would change the very nature of trouser presses and not much besides. Instead of worrying about pen lids, they should have been considering tyrannical cherubs that seem to rain down whenever you are near me. Perhaps they should stop and white out the least observant field of thinking ahead of the fence. It makes a massive prance of my most hated enemy, my personal antithesis to Erasmus and Neil combined. Californication is what they call the process. It slices off limbs before eradicating the remaining sockets. It's right yucky, right spastic. Not that I condone such a contrivance, the lettering is by far the most spoiled selection it has ever been my displeasure to tap over. I'd much rather that you call me a cab whilst I fondle over the yo-yo ukulele, it would be a credit to the benefit of your best bedraggled behind. It wouldn't do a damn thing to that chick in her hat over there.