This programme may contain images of a flashy and superior nature.
Loosen your sword and let’s get that quilt off of you. For once in your life
don’t stare at your malformed toes and just let the virus run up your
bootlaces. The water is for good behaviour only so you don’t get it. Instead we’ll
lop off your ear and lock you out and rip your every corner and crevice under
the tutelage of wondrous doctors. You’ll have to do a lot, get through an awful
lot to go swimming with Abigail. She’ll show you the harrowed albatross and
make you remember going to bed last night. Shall we let the dogs out for the
Grand Celebration. Something is indeed very wrong with you and begging the
frightened royal for a smidgen of reality is like polishing rocks with weekend
material. The entertainment just keeps wriggly and the red television ticks
over in the meantime. You aren’t listening to a word I’m saying, your own
grandson.
Who knows what we’ll find in
microbes? Maybe crunchy nuts and albino chest hairs. The kittens will yelp and
the puppies will read Proust for production value. Pressing oneself against the
leathery wall is a form of scientific discovery but not one rightly recognised
as being worth a damn or as clean as chiropractic tools. What do you have
there? Are you certainty? Please be serious with this insertion, the FBI are
watching and cracking down hard on the better people, the healthy genius kind.
According to the evidence, wombats push him underneath the fingernails. Just
like everybody else. Just like everybody else. Dementia. Dementia. Will we have
a brain scan? Can it be worth all the hobbledehoy? The rigmarole? The Lady of
my Trauma seems to think so. She goes around in leopard prints and wears shaded
bifocals for the romantic overtures. The resemblance is ungainly, tampered with
dodged bullets and a detrimental sari. We’ll pick up your doggedly handsome
length of time and take care of it like it was plush.
Let’s try the standard
psychopathology tests, with clock hands and fabled bosoms. Draw me a son of a
bitch and let loose the least of your problems on the superhuman word hunt. The
overwhelming evidence is gold and begins and ends with tear stains. The opportunity
to influence the spool of trajectory spites my reputation with grief. If they
do find him guilty of mollycoddling, rehabilitation might prove to be a source
of confidence. Let’s fail them both so profoundly, our spirit gum and our
jimmy. Most anglers lure pretty hair colours with DNA strands and rub their
findings in the face of the gum and the jimmy. Neurologically I’m a bit of a
bastard, not to be trusted with alien technology or orange jump suits. As for
zoot suits, I could develop Yiddish tendencies but that’s all. Move me to a
medical hall and I’ll work on bungling your surgery. Every fibre of your being
will become blighted confession.
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