They lost.
Or maybe they didn't. At any rate, it doesn't much make a difference to those to whom it might possibly make a difference, which it doesn't, so there, and go suck a lemon through a twist tie.
Although the myriad of paperclips reached them, that was all. If there was more to be seen, it was not noticed. One can imagine that perhaps subconscious etchings were left, of something, but one would be a fool, pitied by Mr. T, for there was nothing else. Nothing. Not much, anyway. The paperclips themselves were pretty dumb, and the keychains, too.
Billy picked through the rubble, stepping over a Little Archie Comics Digest, like the ones that we used to burn in the good old days. He sensed that someone was coming, but who, and why, and did they know anyone named mortimer?
Making his breakaway over the hills, away from the smashed beer bottles (at least 4 by his count) and charred ash, he verbed an object. He wanted to, but he didn't know how, so he just continued on, down the muddy grass-covered slope and into a pit of indifference. Happy old people with a dog followed him from a distance; this is why he had not burnt the Archie book. Into the woods. That is not a complete sentence. He didn't get very far with his sneakers on, what with the snow not yet completely melted. Stupid snow. That is not a complete sentence. Well, too bad, loser.
He stepped back up the hill (which had no steps), meeting the old people eye to eye. They asked him if he had enjoyed the woods. He destroyed them because he had Power. Then he went home.
You will be bored.
You will be so incredibly bored. But that is the point. That is life. A series of boring events. Repetition of the unrepeatable. And never once making sense. But that is not life. That is not a complete sentence. So then they took out a loan and never paid it back.
You have 5 Cadbury Cream Eggs. I bought them for 10 cents each at Zellers. That's all that I have to look forward to -- my only reason for living. Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday -- and then back to staying alive through the inability to die. How many times I've impaled myself. And yet what I need is a building. If I were standing at the top of a building now, of course, I wouldn't be able to kill myself. Not with these eggs. I'd need to eat them first. But I couldn't eat them all at once, and I couldn't eat one now, before supper. So I'd have to get off the building, live out five more days, and then come back.
[so considered Sven]
Sven kept walking, hand in his pocket, fondling the eggs. Life eggs, they were. His life eggs. It began to rain.
He turned right at the 4-way stop and crossed the street as soon as a car approached slowly enough to allow him. Getting run over with those eggs would be a messy sight, and a waste of 58 cents. 58 cents was the total value of Sven's life. But he'd given the cashier (no -- Customer Sales Representative) 60 cents, and she'd had to open a new roll of pennies to give him his change, and it was hard work for her. He felt guilty.
A tall blonde woman walked by unhappily in a brown leather jacket.
"Yes, you are," assured Sven. "Here, have a cream egg. You can inject it with cyanide solution and give it to the people who make you feel like you're not."
"Thank you," she replied. "But will I give it to you or to a certain two to whom I owe a tuing?"
Sven couldn't believe this freak. Why was she talking to him? He continued on and went home and lived rechargeably ever after. Stops at Monday.
2 - red&black- hdd led
4 - red&&&black_ speaker
5 - green&&black&white&white - keylock
2 - yellow&black- turbo light
2 - red&red - resetsw
it is at that location between here and now
that the astral forces promulgate their pomegranate love
and greed to those who can not stand nor believe in the
reducibility of the human soul
at any time the forerunners of reconstructin may beam down upon
us a caffeine dream of superdestructive repetition of all that is
psychic. but if the astral world were any less boring than this one we would
have found it
The Weston Hotel
and when you put them in water the grow so if you swallow you'll swish up like a jellyfish and let me know when it happens because I want to see the bumps under your skin and feel the indifference of eternal loss of ego and really long sentences that have to punctuation except at the end.
paperclip paperclip paperclip.
I will not I will I will not I will I am sam ia m and
i have a cheque to cash but it's not for me
with the loss of ferocity comes the realization that that city in particular is just as boring as morbidity becomes at the end of time when all is real and fake is truth
but I can see your falsehoods and I can know the difference
that is sameness and I can feel you knot breathing down
my neck but why do I think of you?
gold dust on the AOL disk
but it's gunpowder and it'll burn your computer, burn you, your house,
and all that is dear to the materialistic cowboys (and girls) of
Savannah PC Banking Activation Kit
relax don't do it when you wanna go
soil dust as cool as cactus reductions
why reduce the cactus?
why reduce the soul?
That does it. Want some fish?
This is what was going through Mr. Bob's mind as he manned his counter at the grocery store. I won't say which grocery store, because it would be very embarrassing to the general manager who not only hired someone ostensibly called "Mr. Bob", but put him behind the seafood counter. What was he thinking? Even a "Mr. Robert" couldn't handle lobster -- let alone someone whose last name is actually (or not actually) Bob.
Of course, there are plenty of crab tamers in the world firstnamed Bob. Their last names are always "Fisher" and they all work at Sobeys. They stand around all day and do things with fish. They just hate fish. That's why you can never buy a live lobster with a healthy left eye. The Bobs perform sadistic left-lobster-eye (inhumane! inhumane!) rituals involving cinnamon pinwheels. You don't want to know any more than that. Why are you reading this lame trash?
Kerry entered through the back door. She liked doing that, simply because she could. That's the great thing about the seafood station: always close to the back door. Kerry bought some fish (which shall remain nameless).
OK, so the fish was also named Bob. Everything is named Bob and it's driving you insane, pecking your little eyeballs out just like you're a lobster. And don't you feel like one sometimes? Kept in a little tank with tape around your claws? I don't. I don't have any claws. But I still watch out for my left eye.
Kerry pushed too hard. Kerry always pushed too hard. But at least Kerry wasn't a drug pusher. Whatever was in her attaché case, she wasn't selling it. Just holding it, for someone, somewhere, waiting. She had long forgotten just who was supposed to take it, and at any rate didn't really keep a close eye on the briefcase. Or attaché case. Whatever.
Thursday.
Sven was finishing his last cream egg. That freak had stalked him home to return his gift, and Monday and Tuesday he had been too full to eat anything extra.
Nothing's going to happen in this chapter so you might as well skip ahead.
Fools. No, foolls. Yeah, that looks better, thought Sven. He was writing on a paper napkin. He thought he could be some kind of prophet or something, and maybe impress some people after his death. Nice, fun stick figures doing various things filled the napkin.
It was then that Sven discovered the secret, the one huge secret that had been plaguing him. All his life he had suspected that there was something else going on, something that he was missing out on. Something that other people knew about, and he was getting tired of saying "something". But there it was.
The napkin was folded twice.
He pulled at the edges and shook it open, and there was four times as much space!.
Sven's mind raced through the possibilities. Yes, he decided, all other napkins were probably also like this, except maybe for those annoying cloth ones that don't really wipe well anyway. Everything was becoming clear now. The years of laughter, the exorbitantly high napkin expenses (compared to what his mommy always told him), yes, everything! Sven was whole now! Sven was complete!
He drew some more stick figures. It was fun.
norman has taken
control or my
alt key
(I brought with me a plastic spoon)
Well, it's too late for that now. Billy was finding himself in an unusual position. It was unusual because people don't usually wake up there.
Billy woke up in a dumpster. Yeah, sure, this happens all the time, but no one hears about it. But Billy did it all the time. And this time would be the last.
Because this little tugboat was going to go up in fire, you know, like big flames, and bangs and booms and smashes and cocktail waitresses biting the dust. Billy took out his trusty Combust-O-Matic® gas can and doused the dumpster. Then he jumped out of the dumpster, which is what most people would have done in the first place, but noooo, not Billy. Petrol and banana peels filled the air.
He was on a boat, swaying, some old guy with a pipe, a white beard and a crappy hat fishing, a really polluted harbour, leather jackets smoking pot behind that thing on boats that you go in to steer and stuff. Billy flashed them a peace sign and they threw a lit joint at him but missed and hit the gasoline.
As flames engulfed the poor, tired dumpster (which, by the way, concealed fourteen illegal immigrants seeking refuge from certain death in Nauru, where they were wanted on charges of making up about 1% of the population of Nauru), something happened. We won't get into it here because it doesn't really matter, as the whole freakin' boat's about to blow.
Billy poured gasoline on the rest of the back of the boat, then ran to the front to pour some there. Finally, he stuffed the can down one of those funky engine exhaust pipes that Inspector Gadget always stuck his neck down because he was a fruit.
"God save us all! I'll have ye legs off, ye purple-haired freak! Ye! Wassup, foo? Yo hommies goin' down with yo' posse tonight!" cried the old captain guy as Billy ignited the back of the barge. "I'm a gonna catch me a fish, bye, an' you gonna blow me up! Eh?" Ye olde captaine guye was Scottish or something.
In a huge mushroom the boat exploded, and Billy was thrown high into the sky, where he chatted with Lucy for a while before seducing her and making off with her diamonds, ehivh yuthend out to be fake. Oh, dear God, there's blood on me keebord now, eh?
was I ever late?
nay but never did I make use of thine dynasty fraudulently
as the dreams of redemption fade to black and the rest of us fade to a pale,
sickly off yellow I speak to you of fruitless pursuits of fruit flies
cut up and destroyed and stored on a microscope lamette (english?)
with that funky pink stuff (makes the cell walls easier to see)
and art thou fore with calypso? well? art thou?
well let's get this show on the road and see how a real 8253 does it
never let sensibility seep in
because you are SPENT, lost, gone, time to be done away
with
in the old tradition of the always punctual that grow on a thine
(rhymes with "stine")
mmm Steak & stein
my foot hurts
well too bad for you
shut up
no way man
Jumping Jehosaphat! I am Isaac Asimov's ghost twice-removed!
gracefully avoiding the wallet left by Reader's Digest
7304809 ||||||||||||||||||||||||||| | |||| | | | | |
bar code
27144 42207 garden petroglyph small
SNA on an IP Backbone
global heimlich maneuvre
1545
self-obsession gone awry
rear window of a hatchback
goals & phone numbers
Mr. Bob was checking Kerry out. She was pretending to look at some fish.
But it doesn't matter what they're doing now. That'll all be in the past soon. aLL THEY NEED is to give Billy something to land on.
AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH.
AAAHHAAHHHHHHAHAHHAHOOOHHOOHOHAAA.
AHHH. AH. A.
Uhhh.
Hi.
SLKDJFL;AS;DFLJ AS;DJF ASKLHFD AKLSDHFL KHVCKLASDFKL ASKLDHFASKLJDHF KLAS SDFKH ASLDHFLAKSFH KLASDHVCKLHEWRKL SANTA CLAUS WUZ HERE ASFAL;SDFFASD SDF ASDFASKLDHFKLASD LHF ASDFLK HASKLDHFKLASJHDFKLASHD FLKASDFLKASDFJHASDFKL ASKLD ASDFK; ASLDJFLASDF AND HE ASL;DJFKLASHFD SMOKED A LOT SLDKJFSLKDF OF ASDFKLL ASDFLKA SKLD FASKLHFD POT ASFDASDFASKLFD ASFD WHILE HE WUZ HERE. WEROIXCVOI XCVUI ASDFASKLDF ASKLDFKLASDFKLASDFKLASHDKLFZXMVCBALIEW189290832YRSJDNC!!!!!!!!!!
Billy pulled himself up from the soft, warm floor.
"Hey," he said, brandishing some diamonds. "I'm in a cool grocery store. With fish."
"You're a buttmunch," said Kerry. "Get the hell off of me."
"Huh? Oh, sorry. Wow, look at that hole in the roof."
"You said, `roof'."
"Yeah, whatever, suck girl. Hey, who's that kat behind the fish counter?"
Mr. Bob jumped the dirty, sticky counter, grabbed Kerry's attaché case, and ran. Run run run. See Bob run. Bob's cool cause he can run. heh heh cool.
"Hey you scumsuck bastard bilgesuck dumbsuck ****suck hellboy, come back here with my goddamned briefcase!" intoned Kerry.
There was a terrible noise as, unseen by the people with the salmon, a cement mixer dozed through the front window of the grocery store and flattened several isles on its way to the back. Then it wasn't unseen anymore.
"Ha ha! I got me some freakin' napkins! I'm napkin boyyyyyy! I'm so bloody cool it makes me sweat! I'm so hip I have trouble seeing over my pelvis! I'm so unoriginal I have trouble copying, like, old stuff or something!" said the driver.
"You dilwad, you broke the grocery store."
"Hey, James!" said Billy. "James!" "James!"
"My name's Sven. Who's James?"
"No, you're James!"
"What? I don't even know anyone named James."
"Yeah, whatever loser, you're James..."
"You suck."
"Will you help me find my briefcase that that guy stole?" pleaded Kerry.
"Sure," said Sven bliffsully.
"What's in it?" asked the other guy, I forget his name.
"Umm... I, uh, I forget, shut up."
"Okaaayyyy..."
"Yeah, but wherefore art lui?" asked Sven.
"Oh! I know what to do," declared Billy with all those stupid English words. "There's some fat freak in a red death suit in the rafters smoking pot. Let's ask him!"
They were up in the rafters now, facing the true rulers of the Cholera Harbour grocery store scene.
Seated on their left was Santa Claus, in full getup, enjoying a kazoo filled with various illicit cannabis products.
To his left, or our right, was Frank Black of the Pixies, another cool fat guy, also wearing the 100%-hemp St. Nick outfit.
Next to him was David Duchovny, and in his lap, that depressing scarred guy from "Millenium".
"Get off my lap, you sick old man!" said the D-man.
"I sense... that you once killed a ... small chipmunk or a... some other small rodent... when you were a child... deep anger, the squirrel is haunting you and affecting your behaviour... if we don't catch you soon you will kill again... Oh, yeah, and you have a disturbed sexual past and/or a history of failed relationships and/or never quite got along with your mother," babbled Frank Black #2.
"Shut up, dilwad," said Kerry, a card-holding member of the David Duchovny Estrogen Brigade, which I will no longer mention except in quiet whispers because DDEB members have too much time on their hands.
"BAAAAMMMM! I'm a soda jerk! Ba dump-ba! Wave of mutilation!" remarked the cool Frank Black.
"Shut up, fat boy," commanded Satan Claus.
"Hey," said Sven, "Are you badmouthing Frank Black, um, fat, no, um, OLD boy? Yeah, that's right, I called you 'old boy'. You're old!"
"Yeah. Anyway," said Billy, just so that he could get in on the action.
"Ok, like, um, fat high guy," began Kerry.
"You'll find him on the harbour in a far out boat."
"Coooolll! How did you know what I was going to ask?"
Santa smiled. "I always know what you want for Christmas."
"Oh yeah..."
"And you're not getting that vibrator, either."
"I sense... deep..."
"SHUT UP!" said everyone else.
"Would you like to come with us, David?" begged Kerry.
"Um... no."
When a cement mixer drives off a wharf and into a harbour, where it is picked up by Captain Highliner, it makes a sound: "Blub."
Oops, maybe that was a bit too flashy.
This is going nowhere, but Captain Highliner let them attack Mr. Bob's ship in exchange for having a large pile of concrete dumped on his front lawn and moulded up by "art freaks".
This is death.
Small chipmunks swept over the surface of Mr. Bob's ship, which looked like an overstuffed box of kleenex. Then there was a big whole in it, and it sank, and the briefcase floated to the surface. Blah.
Kerry jumped out to get it, beat the crap out of Mr. Bob when he surfaced, and was ditched by Captain Highliner, who thought she was wearing a really ugly shirt.
Back on shore, Sven drove off in his cement mixer and Billy accidentally lit himself on fire again. I think there was another character but I forget him.
|
on occasion you will catch a glimpse of what the dough-worms call "reality".
But it is nothing compared to green plastic cups filled with brown carbonated motor oil & caffeine from Sobeys, which is to say that TV is a picture of what you don't want to become, but want only to try to become just for the fringe benefits (i.e. Frank Zappa music). You are not really a writer. It is so simple to forget what you are when there is nothing left of you to remember. There goes William Teller #2. So carefully scripted, so easy, and that guy from "SuckQuest" really sucks. |
Sven woke up encased in himself.
It was something he did a lot, and always reminded him of what his mother had always told him about not sleeping on a lumber truck whilst dressed as a severed tree.
"Sven," said Mommy, "I don't know who the hell you think you are, but if you go sleeping on a lumber truck in that wood costume again, I'm not gonna stop 'em when they start throwing logs at you!"
"But Mommy, I wasn't wearing a log costume!"
"Yeah, but you're ugly."
"Yo' mama's ugly!"
"Don't drag your grandma into this, jeez she's eighty two freakin' years old, leave the old hag alone to die, it's not like there's a big inheritance..."
Sven's mother would usually say stuff like that, then finish off whining about how her parents should have been rich just so they could die and leave her lots of money.
She died last year in a tragic accident at a paper-product company, where she worked on the napkin assembly line. Somebody was drunk and tried to fold her in half a few times and print a paisely pattern on her. It was a very fun open-casket funeral; I was there, and so was this other guy who was also paid to be there, and that was about it.
Being a paid mourner is cool.
Sven's brother Vlad was the other paid mourner. But he got fired because he kept laughing and muttering stuff like, "Ha ha, you're dead, fuck you." He was also constantly humming Rankin songs, which ultimately lead to his death in a satisfying auto crash. Police ruled he had accidentally tied himself to his driver's seat, and then removed his brake pedal and put a brick on the accelerator while the car was about a hundred feet away from a brick wall in the desert. He left a note: "Suck boy diez. The Rank1nz suck. Hon0rz dun by =-=-=-TH3 3L33T WARR10RZ-=-=-=."
|
1.
1And he was carrying a sack of crab apples as he
entered this world. Thou shalt mulch thy grass clippings, he said. 2And his
people listened. 3Thou thart thu thum thich. Cool.
4"Will ye not observe?" he demanded. "Open up your eyes and behold. 5It is compost. 6Cool." The Parable of the Man who Poked Himself with a Cactus 7"Gather round, my children," said the guy. "I tell 8you, you should not poke yourselves with plants. This is 9why: 10"There once was a man who played a kazoo in the Third Rate International Orchestra. He was a superb kazoo player. 11He was absolutely the best kazoo player you'd ever heard. And he was from Nauru. But that's OK." 12"Tell us, oh master guy, tell us about the kazoo man!" cried Narian. 12.32453"Yes, tell us now!" demanded the others. 13"You will listen to me, you will shuteth the hell up, and you will let me finish my crappy little story, OK?" he hast admonish. 14"Back in the dayeth, there art being were des kâzoo playérs as the French dost know them; they hath now been disbanded. This man, whomst we shalt not call Quinn, was the bestest of the buncheth. He was the man." 15"One bright summer's day the man who is not to be called Quinn setteth out upon a journey. He had brought it upon himself to buy flowers for the orphans at Our Lady Turpentine 1st National Bank and/or Church. He walked many minutes until finally he reached LakklaNT." 16"Where is LakklaNT?" cried Narian in anguish. 17"Shup foo!" replied the guy and banished Narian to eternal torment in Mabou. 18"Moving on, this guy, this not Quinn guy, was walking through the town hall of LakklaNT, lookingeth for some magnificent flowers. 19"He hath spotted a cactus." 20"A cactus! A cactus!" repeated Salmon. 21"Shup foo! Off the beach!" said the guy as he banished Salmon to eternal torment in Mabou. There were now but seventy-seven followers left at the soca. |
22"As the Quinn-not-beer spotted the cactus, he was filled with a feeling of fulfilment and joy. He reached out to touch the cactus. He used it to prick his finger. 23"This cactus told kazoo guy not to be so touchy, and maybe they could be friends. But non-quinn hadeth a bleeding index finger and died of gangrene after a few unhappy days that no amount of really good kazoo playing could cure. 24"OK, you can talk now." 2. 1heh heh. stick. The Forgiveness of the Annoying People 3. 1Now the guy was a fair man, and realized that perhaps he had been a miteth hasty with all of those Mabou-banishings. So he himself voyageth to helltown, to Mabou, amidst much bad music and bed-and-breakfasts. 2It was the unwilling sense of mystery which surrounded him that he found so annoying. But that doesn't matter because he is but a tool. 3Heh, heh. I said, "butt". 4The guy foundest Narian and Salmon together asking each other stupid, obvious questions. 5Narian! Salmon! I call you! 6"It is you?" asked Salmon. 7"Well, duh..." replied the guy. 8"Um... who... are you?" wondered Narian. 9The guy sighed heavily. "Never mind, you stupid losers. We're getting out of here. This music is death." 10"We like it here," announced Salmon quietly. "We're not leaving." 11"OK, good, because I don't like you," saidest the guy cheerfully as he left. 12And there werest many more adventures, but they hath sucketh muchly. 13blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah 14bsdf bsdf bsdf bsdf bsdf bsdf bsdf bsdf. |
Thrill-seeking pillows bite chairs and turn lights to "dim" in the midst of a severely unknowable midnight chase scene involving penlamps and/or traces of almonds left in teeth after flossing. Beach parties involving crabs lose out to lobster-sucking wheel bigots at the hands of that woman who looks like Oprah but isn't cool enough.
So why do you distance yourself from the one who shaares all of your genes? Did he mispell a name? I'm confused by his orange hair.
So what did you steal in that minute?
line
But you mispronounced the title.
Again.
A suburban dumptruck in 1984.
Are you lit by glo-worms? We all went insane in that dumptruck.
Billy...
Was walking to Biway again.
He passed by the white sedan. "P-p-pul-pull your shirt down in back. P-p-pul-pull your shirt down in back." Probably not directed to him, but at a discrete distance he checked anyway. And checked again. But it wasn't up. I'm going insanenasni gniog m'I. Help mem pleH.
It was... a long time ago.
This is death. He lit his pantleg on fire again, just for fun. He went into a department store, just to kill time. He looked for caffeine pills, but there were none. And he let everything change.
There are points in life where, if you want, you can go insane. Just stop controlling what goes through your head. Leave reality behind in a writhing pit of snakes. Grass snakes. Pillow eaters. Let your vision color cycle and watch the conspiracies unfold.
You! Why are you trying to kill your best friend's last best chance of getting out of suckvill;e? I know what you're thinking! Listent to me! DIIEIIEIEIEIIEEIIEIEIEIEIEIEI!!!!!! I will get you before you can get him! He's not your guppieeeeeeeeeeeeee! He's not your FFFIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSHHHHH to kill! I ain't screwing with your mind, fruit, I am your mind! I am you!
There weren't enough people around for him to be really embarrassed. The anonymity of suburban shopping strips would protect him. He turned around and tried to get into the grocery store.
If the doors don't open for you right away IT'S BECAUSE YOU'RE ALREADY DEAD. Billy was already dead. He banged his nose on the automatic ddddddooOOOOOOrrrrr. He hurt his nose on the automatic dddddddooOOOOOOrrrrrrr. He can't count.
And that was a long time ago. Things didn't get better, but he doesn't feel worse. Insanity is a defense. He killed a lot of junebugs just so the judges would give him Prozac. Zoloft. Valium. Shock therapy. Vivarin. Morphine. Tobacco. Herbal remedies. Homeopathy. Group. Halfway houses. Quarterway houses. Eighth houses. Sixteenth houses. 4294967296th houses. Guillotines. Earl Gray tea. Robin's Donuts coffee. Barleygreen. Maalox. Promises. Lies. Bad techno music. Orange Grove County. Ceramic tiles. Hydrogen peroxide. Alun. Piranhas. Bob Barker. Yo mama. Cookies. Sugar. Sugar. Sugar. Sugar. Glucose. Fructose. BHT, BHA. Plastic spoon enemas. Shrunken heads. Cyanide.
Cyanide.
MMmmm, mmm. Sweet cyanide.
Billy's batteries are dead and he doesn't have four hours to spare. If you're lucky the pop machine gives you your money back with the pop so you get two. I'm not thirsty, he thought. Get your own.
Sally was about to spontaneously combust.
This made her better than people like Billy, who have to light themselves on fire if they want to get anything done. Sally's a fighter. Sally's a lighter.
She was in a crowd, androgynous crowd, fake crowd, safe crowd, somewhere, it doesn't matter where (or why). Uncomfortable wooden seats. Ceremonially exorcised sea monkeys. Magnetic shoes. She got up and went crowd-surfing.
"Hey, chick, what's your problem, you stupid or something?" asked some people in the crowd at somewhere.
"I'm going to blow up! YAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!" she ejaculated.
There was a loud explosion and guts flew everywhere. Her head shot through the roof high up above and landed on Sven's styrofoam plate on the roof of the apartment building where he pretended to live.
"Yum," he said. "Nothing like a severed head." His plastic eating utensils weren't sharp enough to cut it, though, and his teeth were sensitive, so he just threw Sally's head off the roof.
"Splut," said Sally's head as it hit the pavement below.
Some young hoodlums joined Sally's head. What's a hoodlum, you ask? I don't know. I think it only applied in the eighties, said Sally.
"It's a head!" said one.
"Let's eat it!" said another.
"I'm not hungry!" said a third.
"Then I'm going to shoot you!" said a fourth.
"No you ain't I'm gonna stab you first!" retaliated the third.
"Peace be unto you," said the guy (the fifth hoodlum). "I hate lobster."
Mr. Bob was walking around. There was a rope tied around his ear. The other end wrapped around Sally's waist (obviously, this is before she blew up), but she seemed not to notice. So he was kind of stuck.
I mean, it's not the kind of thing you can just go up to someone and say. "Excuse me, but there's a rope around your waist, and the other end is attached to my ear." And it would be a waste of a good rope just to take it off his ear and cast it to the floor.
"Excuse me, but there's a rope around your waist, and the other end is attached to my ear," he said. Mr. Bob was not the type to feel guilty about breaking social taboos. He did it all the time. He had a shrine to Wilson Phillips in his house, just to annoy people.
Sally said, "Hi," and kept walking.
"It's just that I can't get over the gap between what I want, what I can have, what I do have, and what I deserve, which is everything, nothing, a bunch, and a brutal beating."
Sally said, "Huh?"
"Have you heard that before? Maybe you will in the future, and then you'll hear it again now. But the first time will be better, before I break your illusions of creative thought."
Sally said, "So who am I?"
"Fish," he answered. Not because she was a fish.
A giant halibut fell on them from above. That's why he said, "Fish." The halibut fell on them from above and not from below because of social taboos that it was afraid to break. Gravity itself has no effect on halibut. Heh, heh. I said, "butt".
Kerry accidentally tripped and fell on a spike. Shit.
la la la la
i am bored
bob is cool
i want to s
ee some LES
BIANS!!!!!!