If you had a Trar

Let's Click on links
with no belief
and hold out tongues tonight

we'll gather herbs
and brace for sunlight

in a rusty pole I'll find evermore
and wish for pecan pie
you got a stem
so we'll pray for
iodized salt

scrumdiddlyumptious

Completely fictional account of events that never unfolded at a local Borders bookstore:

INT. BORDERS - AFTERNOON
Near the self-help Stacks.

JOHN DOE
I'll bet your vagina is tingling, seein' as your so close to me.

JANE DOE
Do you ever read Chekhov?

JOHN DOE
I want to feel up your fallopian tubes.

JANE DOE
I'm really into classical music.

JOHN DOE
You have great mammlian glands.

JANE DOE
Especially the Baroque period.

JOHN DOE
Oh... You're on your period.

JANE DOE
What about Kafka? You like him?

JOHN DOE
Well, I guess I can deal with menstrual blood.

The bookshelf suddenly falls over. Copies of "I'm OK, You're OK" and "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff" shower down impaling everyone in the vicinity. Well, maybe not impaling. But definitely papercutting patrons to their death. Blood fills the instructional wing of Borders.

JANE DOE
I could really go for some Tiramisu right now!

Oleo

Our Lord Est Omniscient. On Land Eaters Opine. Often Lemons Entice Omissions. Old Lighthouses Emit Oranges. Otto Leaves Entire Olfactories. Oh Lay Em' Out.

Host vs. Parasite 101

This is the decade of unenlightenment. We grow up too fast and slightly more retarded. Grand over-simplifications are a substitute for rational thought and debate. God hates everyone. If he didn't, we would like one another. Instead, these are the shows he watches on the television channel he made:
Masturbation vs. Anal Sex
I Love Homophobia
Everyone Loves Hatemail
The King of Cunt
Friends vs. CSI Miami
Who wants to be a Wifebeater
The Virgin Mary does Dallas (and every other place in Shit-Ass Texas)
See Over-Simplifications

Eyeballs are tumors. They subject us to pain. And make tiny NASCAR races out of people doing everyday crap. Like drinking coffee or playing pool. They enlarge billboards to size of skyscrapers that pierce unsuspecting retinas with sabres of untruth and leaves cones and rods sore with lesions that pus and piss. These lesions turn into unavoidable actions of guerilla-style masking of potential hunting and gathering. What comes is a prison, not of bars and concrete but of cotton, paper, and silicone.

Shopping for pants is not so dissimilar from eating a live octopus. Especially in May. May is a month that people shouldn't be born in. Trust me. My brother was born then. It is a timeless month that feels like having throat cancer if your living in the American southwest. On another note, I feel like chanting some absurd phrase over and over again for the course of a day. No Breathing if possible. If Breathing, Eating, Shitting, & Pissing were not part of our day, we could all be President of our own country. We could invade each other. But not with weapons. We would play Risk or Chutes and Ladders. Or maybe settle difference with Rock-Paper-Scissors. It is more Humane.

Being almost Thirty is the new 15. No Lie. Today I was trapped in a room with unsheathed Permanent markers, capitalizing words unnecessarily. I know you feel sorry for me. Don't. I once had a gerbil that was possessed by the devil. I didn't feel sorry for him. Cinnamon, that was his name. I envied him. When he floated in his glass cage, I thought about how great it must be to not be in control. Jesus, isn't smart enough to be my friend. He probably wore patchouli and hemp chokers. My satan-possessed gerbil was special. Though, uncredited he started the Altoids Campaign. -- -- Bladder full.

Little House on the Prairie would be on television. If it wasn't cancelled due to the news coverage of the apocalypse. It was a popular show once. It was as popluar as chivalry in the early 1990's or Ghost humping in the "Roaring '20's." Now I will read a book enititled Welcome to the Monkey's Crab Louse. It is a very influential book on Economist Milton Friedman. Who is Fucking dead starting today. Which is why this blog will now be all about Economist Milton Friedman's sexual deviancies. Yes, we will discuss his fascination with genital mutilation. On the next Episode.

Meat Truck, Meat Truck. This is a home for elderly. Quiet Pope may sling rats out of pure apathy.

Recently my intestines were sucked out of my body by a Shop-Vac. It is ok. My digestive system was obsolete. I no longer defecate or urinate. I am clean. Now if I could only stop vomiting. I love you.

The future will implode your homes. All your notebooks and cans of tuna will either blow away or incinerate. That doesn't mean it is over. It just means you will have to eat oak branches and charred cabbage patch dolls. Don't let this discourage you. Your friends will be more likeable. You might even be able to truly call them "friends." Excuse me. My breakfast is on fire.

Oh, simpatico me. Stag natually. Gave three pence for a doll. and then washed a tulip with an advice column. the result, mathmatically was 9.7. an inedible number.

&

There is a war on. Not the phony one in the Middle East. No, this war will only last tonight. It isn't on Pay-Per-view. But it should be. The war is on the range. It is called Macaroni & Cheese vs. Baked Tilapia with Lemon & Herbs. Only one dish will survive the cut. Vote Here. This was sponsored by the Ampersand

I truly do believe I can see radio waves, not the invisible sort, but rather the kind that induce tiny, mice-like comas. The sort that eat all things dehydrated and spew ash and broken mixed CD's found on the side of the road.