25/09/2013 - KEEPING HANDY IN A SATCHEL

Keeping handy in a satchel is like any other way of lining up to under the Insanity Guillotine. We may well have outmoded that particular concept half a century ago but the times remain as flexible and reflexive as ever. No amount of preaching will save the married man who forgets his scuba equipment on the day of his sister's daughter's wedding, he will be brought down before the one known as Niece. Young fertility will be the death, destruction and eventual binding of those who defy conceptuality and art's regard. Well wishers can only arm themselves with spent matchsticks and parts of their much maligned pearly gates. The friendship of some people is like any other nerve: if struck it will twang. Notify the children.

                Mind you don't confuse them with the kiddies though. The one with the trilby is neither, he is an angry man who bears grudges in a small stunted manner. His mannerisms are deceptive so don't let yourself down, pay the fuck awake. I have a gigantic robot, nay a fleet of gigantic robots, well they're moderately sized at least. These generally quite big robots will come and steal all the oxygen from your refrigerator and leave behind incompetent nursery rhymes in its moon boot wake. These robots are famous for being infamous no matter how you feel about them. I've heard you want to make one of the taller ones your lover, sadly we can only oblige with the broken ones. We don't believe that any automaton should be left behind, no matter how faulty or short circuited.

                I see you have another box in your mouth and your legs are rigged to run a thousand feet before launching into improbability, maybe landing on an index page of some forsaken lore. If it's a tale of derring-do don't bring it to me, post it to the murderer's address. She needs good fodder for her sadistic chime crimes. That's Clang association for you, it spits in the eye of most grandmothers. But they're convertibles so who cares for them really? It's tragic, mildly tragic but irreversibly true.

                Somebody shot me once you know, whilst I was listening to Men with Shades who wanted to portion out and displace my hedge funds. They make me seem all fat nosed and stupid but at least I don't conform to their fascination with dinosaurs from the Cousin Menagerie. It's a voluntary glad rag thing I just have to go through with whilst the bullet circles and rewinds the zipper back up the wrinkled shaft. It's a synopsis just for you so put on your top hat and tails and take me to the happening, the rich are away and I want to see what they leave behind and why its deemed so unimportant.

                But first, the butt. This is your butt and it is an engine. It doesn't run smoothly and it often grinds against naughty language but it's still an engine running vertically. Let it suck at approximately forty nine beats per second.