Dulcimer Elves and a Force Fed Tapeworm Satellite

If only I were able to organize outwardly then we’d really be cooking!  Really, like soup du jour for breakfast.  Those cheese-sticks that make you feel like shit in an hour glass, time moves by slowly.  Tick-tock towards completion, here we go! OK! Bye! C-ya! See ya later! Ta-tau!  “Motherfucker only left me a tip!  If I needed advice, I wouldn’t take it from you, sir.”  The savers and the squanderers, who do we like better?  “Well, that’s retrospectful and not really respectful at all!  And that’s all we’re ever asking of our employees,” goes the corporation.  “It’s in the soup, bitches! It’s right there in the soup, laughing at me!  LOL alphabet soup!  AHH!  The noodles!  Run for your lives!”

“I would but it’s cold out,” or even in Summer, “I would, but it’s too hot.” Oh mama, I love fucking Summer!  I love this time of year!  Timism.  Let’s get our work-out in! Bangers and mash!  A British time philosophy from Big Ben.  “No! No! Not a New Year! I don’t want to admit that it’s the year 2000 and I live in the future!  It’s crazy with robots out there!  I could be a robot!  That would be awful! ...or would it be like Inspector Gadget?”  asked the introspective gadget to herself, more like Penny and change, that clever dog, Gizmo. “When my dog dies, I will be crushed, sad.  Oh, so sad.  I would cry if I could, but the frozen tears would just stick to my face.  It’s cold in Winter, but then Spring comes with new species in the rainforest where the dodo has died, or continues to survive in some sort of top-secret dodo robot zoo for birds, a mechanical aviary, a large, working Ben…”  We’re only told the dodo is dead because those crazy Brits go on crazy expensive safaris. Americans only believe they are rich because they also, conveniently, believe in statistics as a rule of law.  Satisfied statisticians have made a judgment, ass-slapping a maid with those nasty gnarled hands, usually used for self-satisfaction.  Talking to The Man as his cock, and also his pride, pluming the plummet into North Pit, North Hell, or SE DC, mere miles from the White House and the financial district, whatever you prefer.  “The Blacks are all going crazy on freedom and drugs!  The Whites don’t know what to do!  More money?  I can’t understand it!  It’s like, we give them more money and they keep making their lives lousy with children!  I mean, we say that Whites and Blacks are equal, yet they’re a statistical anomaly! (Like a typographical error, ‘holy anomaly, Batman!’),” Robin the bird-brained bat-shit insane flighty red-tighty-whitey looking robot caught speaking.

                Abundant cud, effervescent fluids, and clear, sunny days in a meadow precedes slaughter.  “What’s with all the fracas?  I’m bloody everywhere!”  The red sock without the roast beef, stubbed toe on MN’s printer.  Pucker marks, a pointy ass, and shit! “Shit! Everywhere!  Shit!  If I have to eat, I’ll eat grinning.  I wouldn’t want to fuss up my skeletal structure over such a minor inconvenience that we all go through as humans,” humans identified by statistical chips, implanted in, on, or around arms, legs, or appendages, or a force fed tapeworm satellite.

                Freeze-dried amoeba Splenda!
                You could see his bulge from his splay.
                Women go wild, tickled pink.
                Thoughts of a baser nature fill the void.
                “Me hits homers!”
                Better a skull bashed-in than abashed heads.

                Some people really know how to live!  Or they think they know, but not really.  I know from being a life-long learner who remembers everything tied to a string or strand of DNA.  It’s all in the circuitry.

                “Blown fuse, dipswitch!”

                “Carry on, Scotty.”

                Marshall Mathers blithers blathers, blithering blathering idiot, I.  The adroit idiot confounded supposition and continues to seem to the astounded, profound.  We’re sooner to jump to assumptions than truly conclusive conclusions.  Aren’t we?  I don’t know.  “I don’t know,” uttered and reuttered the macho pious.  “Ate a lot of cheese,” Attila the Hungry growled over his stomach, congealed.

The Brotherhood of the Awakening was not recognized by party-goers because it wasn’t Greek and got no less respect, already receiving none.  Alpha Omega Alpha would have burnt to the ground within a week.  Bitches getting pregnant, death in the bathroom stall.  Those guys want it all, individually, to end it all.  “Burn the motherfucker down!” A just resolution sans arson on Indian burial grounds haunted by a curse, a gift, and a plague of dulcimer music.

                Some are not entertained by some comedy and it is inappropriate to force an issue, by custom, politeness, and good manner.  It is also rude to make a big stink by etiquette. Unchained, perhaps it is best to just let her go.  A ghost can be felt, even if it is not an apparent apparition.  I descend to a more perfectly painful plane, the fields of Athenry, in sheets of pins and needles rolling into the horizon.  It is a far cry to a complete circuit at the speed of sound to the speed of light, raindrop of petals, and wrapped in a casket.  Beauty is fleeting and must be chased!  Beauty is fleeting, you must be chaste!  Exercise procrastinates aging.  Wisdom is blue.  What should I do?  Just do it.  (Nike.)  Work for the Man.  The Man kisses booty every night before bed and throws his cash in a drawer full of elves whose function is to multiply the man’s money so that there’s enough to share!  Isn’t that kind of them?