If only I were three years old.
Mister Anchovy, order me a lemon.
I've been crying all night, let's get this party started.
Jimmy "Tin Foil Obelisk" McGee.
I regularly build gas stations out of hair.
My daily activities include:
1. Walking the dog
2. Walking the goddamn dog
Crimp my dogs, wrap my feet in leather, and send me down the street to fetch you a carton of lemon puddin'. Puddin'. Puddin'. Puddin'. Puddin'. Puddin'. Puh. Puh. Puh. Puh. Puh. Puh. Puh. Puh.
I live in a cell; it's dark in here. The walls are made of slick red plastic and there are freshly killed cows everywhere. And then the baboons creep in. Ah, yes, they pour in through the windows until the room is full to the ceiling with baboons, and then the baboons cause my cell to explode, thus freeing me. Well fucking Jesus shit yes.
I love geese, ya know, HAH, I mean, I'm a goose, hey, hey hey, hey hey hey, hey hey hey... hey.
Sally skips a stone through space and delicately buries several mollusks just beneath the earth's surface before howling at the moon and slowly plodding back up to the 37th floor of her golden palace with a panoramic window view of the threatening storm clouds.
Mom, I'm a weedwhacker.
Mom, I'm made of weedwhackers.
Mom, I bought a hat today.
Mom, I'm a labyrinthian corpuscle.
Trout.
Pulpit.
Let me bring your attention to these three ornate mosques; they are large, bright, and fat, like good mosques should be.
That is some sweet, sweet, fat shit. I feel it as I snort it deeply into my nostrils and through the inner cavities of my brain. Welts upon my exterior bleed as I cry and tell the Lord I love him. My knees buckle, and I grunt in solitude. A hand reaches from the darkness. In its haphazard grip is a greasy conglomerate of cured meats.
CURTAIN.
Crowded parlors full of fat greasy men, cardboard donkeys, old shopping bags draped over young raindrops, the crows tell stories of their childhoods, their little crow games, vocal cords squeezing out creaky syllables into the cold rain. At the park flying kites on a windy day, Jesus loves me, I will one day go to Heaven.
Can you believe I cried all of these tears, Billy?
Oh dear, my motor has ruptured!
Thin layers of plastic in the forest, thunder claps echo dark times.
Wooden trains and seatbelt buckles, carefully gilded lamppost covers.
Now here's something you may not know: Boathouses are actually just children with wings. I have Satan in my soul and in my leggings, my sternum has ruptured, give me Aladdin. I know nobody has told me yet, but I'm sick! I BOUNCE! Milk tunnel, I need them to help me out of this place, bunions 'n' gelatin hats, let's go.
Oldest Living Janitor Award.
Dusty bowling hall attendant shuffling through night smoke, lazily snapping plump fingers to gloomy tunes and saddling a subway to his death bed.
Meticulously constructed, 100% accurate computer simulation of a grim old folks home.
Helmets scarred by generations of impact.
Tremulous underbelly.
Wallet mouth.
My garage is built entirely out of carbon dioxide gas molecules.
Flying through these foggy mountain nights, using the tracks to tell time without even thinking about it.
I am a balloon manufacturing company named "Neldo McParabola's Weary Knees Auto Body Repair Shop / Primarily Balloon-Oriented Shop."
I own these bonnets, and you can't take them away from me.
I am free from the chains and can now be released into the raw sunlight shining over the desolate plains. I'll run until my feet erode.
An old bear walks into a big space and gawks at its contents for twelve twelfths of an hour, blistering peach flavor, Transylvanian inculcation, I've got the barber shop blues, friends.
Bill looks down into the earth and SCOFFS so loudly that gravity is reversed and all the things we know are simultaneously destroyed.
Living sponge, baked ears. Creases in his flesh give way to limitless galaxies. I stand my ground and watch the podium falter. My name is Ned Albertson, and I will continue to supply you with cartridges for as long as you need me to.
Little cars in little garages, clay boxes containing clay figures. I am Jupiter, I am Saturn, I have begun to fill the world with wax. My waxy hat gleams and melts and distorts in the sun, I will tell you how to get there, and then I will live in a dream motel, dim golden light, red velvet walls, bolted tightly against the snowy outdoors.
Sinking into a foggy night chamber, saxophone echoing, chaos congealing, librarians fainting, umbilical chords disintegrating.
Lars feels his way into the marble church using his long proboscis, and then finds a seat among the cobwebby pews, resting his heavy, thick, dense hands beside his body and humming to himself, breathing the thick air.
Alright, son, what do you get when you give a big shoe to a little man? Well, I'll tell you: You know how you get those toys in your cereal? Well, I'm a trellis, son. Goodbye, son.
I want to shave a tree and gain a pound. I'll buy a pound and pay for tree-shaving services.
Corrosive onion grease works great on large onions as well as other sizes of onions (such as small and medium).
