Tuesday, January 9th, 2001 | 00:05
When you don't feel like spelling it out

I like "Boston Public" and if I had breasts, I would talk to them too. And you should stay up too late because your abortion says that it has already been forty-three minutes. If the peanut gallery says to shut the fuck up, take them slightly roasted, with a grain of salt. If you know how I feel, then feel it throughout yourself. Cop a feel and I'll beat you senseless. Are you waiting for an answer? You already know what I will never tell you, don't you? Don't chew with your mouth open, it leads to the spread of herpes. And Cheeze Whiz: Just stick it in the microwave. The dumb ones will never get the jokes we tell and those stupid intellectuals just don't understand. We've all got it, and got it good we do. "I've got a god and Jesus loves me." Ever-gleaming colour. Finger him and get it over the hill. Push it like the stone rose over the under-carriage. In bloom, the flowers grow up my nose, I forgot to blow. Twice a day you'll see my Drano love and I'll be there to CLR it all away. I'm available at Everywhere You Have Ever Wanted To Buy Anything. I will be your Ludovico's sickness and you will love me more than the pee or em that you were born from. If, by chance, you saw me change, saw me strange and were betrayed, shit sucks. Now you've learned and by now you've already forgotten. It's just the way my mind has been on set time cook for the past little few days. I'm melting into a giant vat of what you came to know as a kaleidoscope mindset. And you have always regretted never being the Icarus Boy with the copper-toned cap. Being a little, I have never known what it is to be a lot of everything. You are less than a little bit of nothing. You never were any good at flowing with the juices. Rivers of penance are gathering silt in the banks of Mount Nova Merica. And you can't deal first to the facts that I present in tiny boxes tied with baby blue ribbons shorn by rapists' twisted little handkerchiefs. With your thoughts come the sacred toys of the time. And the ideas flourish with the sights and the sounds of a million roller coaster holding up the beer cans of the world. Who ever thought that the eventual success of the chaos within would come from the comatose preacher of Nether Neverland? Forty-four cake shapes all lined up in a row. He didn't really like the way that she looked, so he ripped apart a pillowcase. If you're French, you're fucked because everything's a reminder of the old you-know. You know who said you know how to get where you want out of life in the fast lane. Grab the carnivore by his smoking white slanderous milk. Your verbose vernacular I slooshied you itty is burning my ookos like the knives that I peeted at the Old Korova Milkbar. You want me to think that I'm thinking my own. You seem to see figurines with the vivid drinking gourd. Poking the wound with the sugarcane staff will never bring back the pee of my em. Your em loses her soul to the shell of the Yule. "Another short story for my unabridged collection by an uncollected short person" (my em). And bellybutton lint.



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