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Rated: E · Poetry · Other · #2084724
If you go to the waterwheel, take her to the silver mine, and bring your blue bucket.
The poultry of my eye screams with the blood of a million AOL disks, discarded to the corner of the room, ready to collapse gravitationally into a black hole from their sheer unprecedented number, while we watch the world destroyed by termites in sand. But what does L. Ron Hubbard say about this? Indubitably. For a sour candy in the hand is worth two in the mouth of George Bush, and to say otherwise is to bet a hundred dollars on the coyote catching the roadrunner which is madness I tell you, utter madness, and trust me, I know madness. Little boxes on the hillside seldom contain the philosopher's stone, they usually contain paraffin, which is useful in its own right but not very tasty. Although still more tasty than a lurgid bee. But at the end of the day, little green worms are crawling up my arm, and cryogenically frozen hot dogs stand little chance of impregnating a menstruating bull. Postage stamps are not as tasty as it would seem, as indicated by the fact that UPS and FedEx have not merged into an ultrazord but it cannot be denied that my cat is Napoleon in disguise. I'll catch him one day. Scheming his sinister schemes. He still hasn't learned that it is a bad idea to invade Russia in the winter. I can tell by looking in his eyes. Have you ever drunk a 4 ounce bottle of acetone? I have. It was one of the worst experiences of my life. I would strongly recommend against it. Why is there no dank superhero named Lobsterman? There needs to be a Lobsterman. The world needs a Lobsterman. Though that's not the hero it deserves. Do robots dream of electric sheep, or do regular sheep dream of being electric sheep, or do they dream about non-electric robots? And if so, what about electric eels? What do electric eels dream of, and who dreams about electric eels, robots or non-robots? The boogeyman stole my bathing suit today. I cried until the zombie of Michael Jackson came by and told me I was pretty. Then he did the Thriller dance. I am suspicious it wasn't the real Michael Jackson however, on account of the fact that it was a 4 foot 6 Asian woman wearing a Rayden hat. I asked Michael Jackson to shoot a lightning bolt but she did a friendship instead. What a gyp. I don't think she was a real electric eel. But libidinous fish are walking at my feet, sucking my toes, cooking pancakes on the straps of my sandals, establishing gambling institutions and not paying the taxes on their winnings. But that's ok because they're not legally citizens anyway. I tell them that I am the real slim shady and they only respond that I cannot be for I am already standing. And so they continue sucking my toes, licking my toenails, chewing the fungus off from their undersides, but I am not dissuaded, for I know the truth. There IS no Santa Claus. And you can take that to the bank. You may laugh now, but when the borg weasels take over, no one will be laughing then. They're everywhere. They control everything. The president. The stock market. The manufacturer's coupons that appear in the newspapers. Everything. They have only one weakness. Checkers. They're terrible at it. Perhaps there is some way to use this to change the tide of the great war that is brewing. It's our only hope. But until then, a virus that causes polydactly will have to suffice. For only with extra fingers can we tickle our way out of this one. The sheer injustice of it all makes me brood. And scheme. And scheme and brood. Not entirely unlike my Napoleon cat, but more like a festering pool of rancid prawn juice. I like getting kicked in the nuts as much as the next guy, but the passion is gone now. Where is my zest? Where's the beef? And who knows the evil that lurks in the hearts and minds of men? The shadow nose.
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