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Fell in a pit (again) | Masticated on May 1, 2005 |
Naked with soda bottles in my ears | Redistributed after May 8, 2005 |
Into the midst of a gorilla and yak pack | Made in Taiwan, R.O.C., before May 15, 2005 |
Eigenfactor | Given to charity prior to May 22, 2005 |
The Magic Oreo Machine™ | Played footsie with on May 29, 2005 |
Masticated on May 1, 2005
Tags: penis.
I fell in a large pit this past Monday and could not escape until Saturday. Nothing happened, except for the worms that ate out my eyeballs and chewed off my member. I need a new one. I also need a can of wax, and a bottle full of computer bugs. But I won’t get them because of the prison break and all the killers escaping and stealing the wax and bugs.
Redistributed after May 8, 2005
Tags: Carpathian Mountains, dogs, testicles, brother.
I pressed the button and went “vroom!” a lot. The police were lying about the testicles and perpendicular telephony; I’m almost sure of it. Grårp did not die of a lampshade to the head, nor an MS-DOS internal wheel misconfiguration conflagration! “It’s our future, damn it! Don’t leave it blank!!” I reminded myself over and over. But it didn’t help. It only made the Carpathian Stinking Hound even madder (woof!)—madder than an Epson printer in heat. The Papacy answered, and the girl-next-refrigerator placed a plastic cup under the doorway to the spamblocking emailer clientele, for now.
Hoo-wah. I saw a quarter lying in the street, and thought that the planter man had put it there. I heard the howling, the roaring, the unintelligible multiplexing of the yellow and orange spotted cap, capitulating to the random discourse of etymology and asteriskography (that’s also known as autonomic typographical teleology). I found nothing, torn asunder under the weight of fifty-seven thousand human and alien champions of deprecation! I thought about this incident until Saturday, whereupon I went mooing and baying at the moon, completely naked and wearing soda bottles in my ears.
Made in Taiwan, R.O.C., before May 15, 2005
Tags: Spice Girls, alabaster, feces, gorillas, singing spiders.
They shoved me into a truck on Tuesday, and did not let me out until seven (seven!) minutes later. The knaves. I never found out why, nor did I learn why the truck had been painted red, and had no headlights but a spare tire. I poured water over my head and ran away. They never found me.
I wrote some code, LISP and FORTRAN, for about seven hours, until that yapping spider—the only one of the singing spiders who remained alive—started yapping again; I had to get my skillet and purée it. The murder took place at 7:37, on schedule. The Internet and AOL merged into one splendid pile of gooey pink stuff. Then, I heard the crab feces calling to me, and pressed another button, letting the now-puréed once-singing spider fall into the midst of a gorilla and yak pack.
It wasn’t a pretty sight. It was like a thousand coups d’état combined with a naïve alabaster botonée cross. He shattered the glass that went into my eye (ay!). If it weren’t for my preoccupation with the Spice Girls’ toes, I would’ve surely apostrophed more words in this sentence.
Given to charity prior to May 22, 2005
Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, death, eigen, Englebee Troobles, pi, screaming stars, singing spiders.
Eigenfactor…!!!!!!
Why was there an eigenfactor on my doorstep? Did it know the floating pi? Was it in league with the singing spiders, whom I thought were dead and puréed, or the screaming stellar entities known as “stars,” or even Alyssa Milano’s pretty little feet?
It would not answer me. I became angered. It sat there, being an eigenfactor. I probed it about the stars, lambasted it about pi, interrogated it about those nefarious spiders, and begged it to tell me more about Ms. Milano’s feet. It just… sat, like an eigenfactor, doing differential arithmetic and calculating the seventh integral of a quartic equation known only to Einstein and a bird named Quetzalcoatl. It just wouldn’t answer me. I sat and watched it until Saturday night, when it flew off suddenly, streaming DLL files and two-way doors behind it like a mandibular penis-envy machine.
Finger, finger, finger, fing…
I printed seven ampersands and a pound sign (not an octothorpe!), pressed the relocator button on my milk bottle, and wondered once more why I could never find an Englebee Trooble. I sat down to write everything down like I usually do, but found my entire journal had been turned into a heap of burning bismuth.
Played footsie with on May 29, 2005
Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Spice Girls, AK-47, eigen, Englebee Troobles, semper sic tyrannis.
I once again could not get Alyssa Milano out of my mind—nor the Spice Girls and their pretty feet. I thought about a Trooble of the Englebee variety, or two, wondering where the police had gone while my house burned to the ground and smeared semper sic tyrannis all over itself like it had almost a year ago. Augusto Pinochet would know, and so would the interdimensional intercapitulation squad.
The captain of the Magic Oreo Machine™ spelled it out clearly: They were still out there lying about the vesicles. I was furious. Where was my house, damn it!? Having the magnetic clamps of wisdom and the AK-47 on my roof once more, I strode down the street like a plastic mannequin and sang out, “La-di-da! La-di-da-di-daa!” until I was arrested for disturbing the moonshiners. I spent the rest of the week hanging wallpaper in a jail cell.
No more eigenfactors for me. And no more thinking about Alyssa Milano, the Spice Girls, or their sexy, sexy feet.
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