Glassy-faced Eurotrash tend
to sit across from me on long trips through thin passageways. They carry books
featuring glorious faces of pale beauties with their magnificent eyes whited
out to spare the natural hegemony of society from any irrational upheaval. The
terms are clear on the arrival of Eurotrash, you come in ice cream trucks or
you come in nothing at all, which is to say naked. The professional work ethic
of these people are what we on the council count on when dealing with them on a
day-to-day basis. Werewolves are guarding our side of polarity and these chaps and their old man chins are
comparatively whimpering. This is the complete closet, the commando elite that
trains itself to be endearing to the toy-wielding popularity contest audience that
regularly rubs down this byway with surly fingertips. Nothing is rosy in this
film-watching racket so the Eurotrash better be ready to stock up our DVD
collection with classics and nothing but classics. We want the kinds of films
that we wouldn’t normally watch unless high or inside a suitcase with no other
means of pliable escape. I don’t know about the rest of you but my glands are
retroactively conspiring with my nether regions without kindly sending a memo
or tying up the little ones’ bootlaces.
The food chain ends in breast
implants and the little Indian that resides in our poetry books is entirely
indecisive about his heritage, picking and choosing his levels of audacious
niceness. You can’t say fairer than that, his feathers tell us or maybe its his
turban or maybe it’s his fancy watch with the hands holding fast every quarter
of an hour. We are cruising by barmpots and tough accents to chew on while
starting an illicit affair with an illicit alien of illicit intentions on every
illicit day of the week. The week itself does little to stump our games and
jokes. The picture we get in our minds is of large breasts that open up roof
tiles so that the rest of the household might access heaven-sent beer. Lager
comes from Aldridge and not very frothy. The well-wishers try to sell the taps
like they would the brand but the brand isn’t quite as sticky as it once was
and that’s probably down to the taps. Drips, you see; too many droplets on the
phone conversation and not enough detail to hammer in.
Drawbridges are becoming
exactly like everything else and that’s almost definitely down to the
Eurotrash. Museums and granddad aftershave linger in their wake like shopping
bags from some Godforsaken outlet that doesn’t sell Blu-Ray or blowfishes. Show
a little initiative to the rest of the planet and you know what you get? You
get rickets and a bloated nose because of those rickets. I don’t know,
something irregular happens and medical science can’t quite catch up or scratch
its head into gear. There’s something to be said about the breakthroughs of
foxy ladies recently though, they swallow fire fighter catalogues by the dozen.
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