I want to see visions of deserts.
Squishy polka musicians heaped onto thick ropes of flesh.
Endless sacks of barley. I'm talking INFINITE barley. I want you to really visualize this. Humans are gone. Plants and animals are gone. ONLY BARLEY REMAINS.
Granite countertops in a plastic house.
I keep my wallet right here in my pants.
I want to talk about a new thing I've been doing. I've been doing this thing where I talk about a new thing I've been doing.
Lord, lift me up. I want to see your shining radiant muscular rotund bulky sweating shimmering exploding nodule of a face. Your thick white teeth and your skinny li'l legs, bam bam bam, kill me.
Listen up, kids, it's story time with James "James" Jameson "Jameson" Arnold Arnold "Arnold-Arnold" Arnold-Arnold James James James "James-James-James" "James" "James" James "Henry" "Henry" Henry Benjamin "Benjamin" "Henry-Benjamin" Isaac Isaacson "Isaac" "Isaac" "Isaac" Isaac Isaac "Isaac" "Isaac" McIsaac Metal-Churning Flesh-Burning Machine "The General" "The Metal-Churning Flesh-Burning Machine" Whillickers!
I'm gonna recite a poem I just wrote:
Listen, li'l puckers. I ain't writin' no more poetry fer ya. I ain't doing none o' dat anymur. I'm havin' fits 'n' seizures an' my THROAT's all pinched together like a bag o' tremolo shovels. Crew cut beef hand. Maximum potential skunk almond.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but these are my little toes and I water them every morning so that I can watch their beefy stalks rise into the sky and loom over the earth, gracing our lives with garments and grappling hooks.
Heavens! There seems to be a GHOST in my SHAVING KIT.
Never mind shaving kits, I'm a lump of coal! Look at me, I'm a skinned rhododendron. Watch me bend and twist my leafy appendages into expansive fractal shapes.
See this? It's a hammer. I'm good with hammers. I can hammer a door right on up in there if ya want me too.
This is a pickaxe. I am a renowned barbecued weasel spout. Listen to this pickaxe. "TICK, TOCK, TICK, TOCK." I'm a goddamn clock, SHIT.
Okay, please be quiet for a split split second while the moon shifts into pixelated blurry pink flowers, each of which sparkles away and becomes its own individual fluid, self-contained entity.
Show me the directions so that I don't get lost. These packages are for you, Jennifer. I have them right here in my little hands.
Purloin these parsnips, Peter.
This flour's getting mighty cold. I have to wash these mittens under the oven spout. The kitchen is composed of various old peeling panels, which transform to the cosmic blast beat of the centuries being cranked out like jackhammerz.
I saw an ad on craigslist the other day; it said, "DEAR CHILDREN: I have aged these fine little piglets for seventy-three years, and I want you to repeatedly hit me with a blunt rake. Don't have an income? There's always money in the RAISIN INDUSTRY. FUCK." You know, that kinda stuff.
I MEAN I DON'T EVEN WEAR NECKLACES. Quaker Oats is a fine company. *British accent* Right here, right now, in this little room, I hereby issue an official A+ to Quaker Oats for manufacturing those fine oaty products that we all know and love.
SHIT ON ME, FOOL!
I parked my car under that shapeless red terrace, but my keys are dimensions away, wedged into a crevice between the folds of time and space.
Our headlights just went out. Son, we've got a long drive ahead of us.
Chop my hat into several littler hats, each of which can be worn by a tiny person. In the world of the tiny people, someone might decide to perform a similar technique on his or her hat, reducing it down to infinitely fewer smaller hats forever and ever.
Micro macro, Jesus pheezus. I'd like to take some time to say that the word in that last sentence is spelled the way it is. The structure may have given way to galaxies of flawless little lace dragons. So there's that.
I love sayin' stuff, ya know? Right?
My headdress is infinite. You should see its folds. They're too infinite for you to perceive all of them, and even if you somehow had infinite visual density powerz, you would die eons before you'd even be able to begin to conceptualize a vague idea of scratching the surface of the immense organism that is these folds.
I am an infinite fleshy shape.
Look at me through an albino telescope.
Embrace me and we'll jump off a waterfall together.
I reached in every direction and pulled all of these concepts individually out of the ground just for you.
Have all of my limbs been in all the places they could possibly be in relation to each other?
I am painted orange, but I LIKE OTHER COLORS TOO.
I want to be killed. JUST KIDDING.
Okay, but seriously, shoot me. HAHA RIGHT? YES?
Jolt goddamn Cola. RIGHT?!
You crawled into my hair and tied yourself into unfathomable knots.
Marbled maggoty membrane stretched across miles of skeletally arranged metal fragments.
I am tender; you may call me Leonard Menard.
Porletto parcramfulen barlonger crun grelaton barbanlen.
Great time to sing, grandpa. Way to ruin the best day of your life in the used car lot.
Critters are floatin' above and I know they're watchin' my every move.
Roll over my thumbs with racetrack glue and slap me upside my exposed forearm muscle.
Sinewy stumps deeply embedded in slimy swamps, roots held in by impenetrable grime.
Mind-blowing 60s color technology displays a sunny day on a hillside; a mother and son are having a picnic:
"Mother, I'm only five years old."
"Okay, son."
"What if I die tomorrow?"
"I'm seven."
"My mother is elusive."
"My mother works as a full-time 'business baker', a baker who also singlehandedly takes on the responsibility of managing all of the business aspects of the baking industry. She's overweight and talks about clay and I hate her."
"...I am your son."
Cricket bat, cricket bat, bitch. What else is there? Don't stop thinking about it, but I need your phone number so I can make a call to you and ask you about your cat and we can have a nice chat and accomplish tasks that help us survive. On the count of three, shine a bright light on me and I'll sing "Milk Halibut" by the Brimsy Twins, a band from a little isolated mountain town called Milk Land.
I've gotten myself into this bizarre situation in which I have a parachute, but no practical purposes for it, so I just wear it. The other day a guy asked me about my parachute, and I told him to fuck off and never to talk to me again. I mean, why would I tell him? He probably sucks at everything and has no redeeming qualities and lives in a ditch.
You know what they say about oxygen tanks; they're so SMOOTH! RIGHT? Like, you never actually see an oxygen tank because they're so impossibly smooth.
I tried to buckle my seatbelt the other day, but I wasn't able to comprehend all of the complex mechanisms that held it together, so I ruptured. The End.
From now on you will use a squat, dusty pair of cartoon pliers to eat your cereal. Deal with THAT.
I can't even fuckin' see straight. LOL
From now on you will refer to me as Parfel Blarfand "James" McFarlanson.
DONE.
