Sunday, September 21, 2008

Das Lunchmeats

The buck stops here. "Indeed."

The rate of surplus value divided by a thirty ought six continued to result in Lunchmeats. There will be, Fellow Citizens, some day, a National Museum of the American Lunchmeats, which will feature papier mache replicas of submarine and other nautical sandwiches. According to the bloated blue mimeograph that the young worshipper relied upon for restroom reading, one should pray to one's guardian angel to help free daddy's skid steer loader from the water table. The cool dew lubricated the deep grass, and that's when the attentional difficulties came on, Religion, Venison, Religion, Venison, although reverence toward one typically resulted in plenty of the other. The neighbor threatened to power up his scraper box. Those were dimestore, jokestore antlers, they had been stapled to the buck's head, if only it were a buck, if only there were carbohydrates, then the opportunity for a bipartisan BBQ may have fruitionated. The Cosmonaut endured his epigastric difficulties because he re-galled the epigastric difficulties of his Cossack forebears and the types of Caucasic Distress they had overcome, and this exercise resulted in the type of Orbital Weightlessness never possible at Dairy Queen or during a snackchips felony. Lunchmeats is a reward system though in the wrong hands Lunchmeats can be a false summit. Consider the DSM-IV Manual of psychiatric diagnoses: no. 823.09 -- Lunchmeats Disorder, Moderate. Symptoms include speaking to Lunchmeats in frank, rational tones, demanding to know what became of Youth. "Give me some answers," the sufferer can be heard to say, whilst harrying an English muffin. The hurricane remnants came through for half an hour. The worshipper's daddy and the neighbor stood there, hands on hips, lamenting how hurricane remnants whuddn't what they used to be. The neighbor powered up his scraper box. The game animal came out of the woods, then -- shoot, it could've been the Duchesser Windsor, but it was Fourth and 2, and Coach was sending out the taxi squad, or so said the Television Set, Religion, Venison, Religion, Venison.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Loss of Beatitude

"Here's lookin' at you, Freezerface!"

Remnants are a loom product and Remnants are the exhaust of a dead storm and Remnants are the hours we typically devote to anxious pontifications or subdued debauchery. Doctors have performed the first Beatific Smile Transplant in history by removing the Beatific Smile from the Arse of a Mr. [censored], and attaching it, bravely, to another man's countenance, thereby restoring Beatific Smile to a second Mr. [censored], who'd suffered Loss of Beatitude. Ah, the tilt of the beret. The receipt of cultural information. It must be Academe, you know, written exams, oral exams, digital exams. Did a dog once Retrieve the entire land mass of Labrador? Rote chores or wrote choirs. To fool the I, to fool the Oeil, trump, trompe, chump, chomp. To attain the rank of Middle Manager is to develop skill sets in correlation with long term goals, or, how to serve that lunchmeat, Inertia, with a side order of Props. Habitat is where your Habit is At. Don't be all, like, up in my face with this "Boers 'n' the Commuter Rail" nonsense because I espied those wild Boers, and heard their "kookete kookete kookete" who says "kookete kookete kookete" anyhow or were those the blooming railroad wheels bracketing toward the municipality of Halethorpe and its adult video landfill? Oh, Sameness of Waterfront Errants, Oh, Every Culture and Its Gravy, Oh, Whap Whap Kneady Jones. To "Whopper the Colonel" is to deliver, yes, a Flame Broiled Burger to a ranking officer, and to deliver a Bent Truth, i.e., Angled Artifice the size of, say, a Dirigable, to a ranking officer, kookete kookete kookete.