28/10/2013 - LET'S GO DOWN TO THE TROLLOP YURT

            Let's go down to the Trollop Yurt, where the swing daddios are out for blood and yeast taints their hybrid skin like spandex on a cow. They pay homage to the malignant exclamation mark, openly worshipping it in front of their dwarf parents without the lengthy anecdotes. The words give in to swathes of silken strap-ons and appalled palindromes, submitting in five quintessential ways that will hitherto remain nameless in spite of their credible use in back garden politicking.

            Variety staggers their blind logistics and creates stumps out of the many limbs of farce, drinking deep from the varicose veins, drinking in the radio sweat. The show shows itself out of the shower and buys a buxom ticket for buxom buoyancy before letting its metaphysical hair down at the Doe End Bar.

            I've been in this town long enough to learn that green lights mean help is close to hand but I'm still yet to truly appreciate the concept without the incomparable aid of hefty signposts. You've been in this town long enough to be well in spite of all the naysayers and other afro people, in spite of all the bile they set alight just t see if we can feel empathy for sacred fluids. We can't. We can't take your car without taking my laptop and perhaps a bottle of mutual champagne lotion to christen the saviour of our naked jaundice day. Pretty soon it becomes a case of a race around driving tracks anyway.

            This is exactly what I've been talking about with my loose leaf partner, this is exactly the point where the shark is jumped over and remains in a perpetual state of vicarious exhaustion. The miniature world closes in its gills and grows out into brothers that feel different things depending on the strength and direction of the wind. It doesn't have to be magical but that does usually help speed up digestion of repetitive matters. It's a truth too akin to wrinkled vessels, it ruins its own moments with victorious fist bumps and elaborate toilet water dances.

            These loops are killer fodder, these loops at your feet. The loops currently at my feet probably won't do much at all aside from tighten and tick off socialists. I'm passive aggressive but even I know when to let rope go and get back to work. It's my humble duty to inform you that the tea party won't be commencing until you open out the hat trick and show exactly how it is done without making any sly digs at economical matters. Good people die every day because of the fat fryers that continue to belch out internal combustion kisses in the rarefied speak.  Drool is the only blotch on the lip of freedom, it is the lasting imperfection that no woman can ignore. Even the transgender community will come out and videotape your excuse for such lackadaisical hygiene. Even the dudes will slap you a rotten one. Your only solace will be God's limitless credit card advert.