Friday, April 18, 2008
washable, washability you can trust
Whatever happened to Piccadilly moustaches. To racist STM bus wonderers. To stay-at-home Mac and Cheese luncheons with Bob Barker, pretending to be sick, pretending to be old. Is he dead? Someone said that he’s been a corpse for years and they have him suspended by strings playing Plinko. His lips are probably harder than old breast implants. I don’t remember whether my first cat was half-black or mottled. I sometimes read books in my sleep, and wake up while eating sandwiches, or talking with dead relatives on the telephone. My shoes and stomach are filled with gunpowder. If I move or feel anxious, I might rocket off. I have to confess, at one point or another I probably pictured you naked. My mom says I have body dysmorphia, I think I’m just young. Once, I realized I was a gay vegetarian and nearly keeled over laughing. Naya’s bottled Evian water. Have you ever been licked by a cow, or misspelled independent, or fantasized about Alexandre Despatie, or killed a cockroach with a hammer. I haven’t either. When I was little, I used to hide for hours from my mom in the grocery store, until she was neurotic and flailing in the meat section. I am, I am, I am, I am. It’s incessant. Did you catch the reference? Some companies only allow their employees to write in blue pen. It’s such a relief to be rid of form. Garden gnomes are conspiring again. Eyelids have adjustable shutter speeds. Virginia Woolfe never had a formal education. 78% of people have traveled elsewhere without their cat. Mormons are mostly left-handed. We turn right 51% of the time. Hamster’s blink one eye at a time. A frog’s favourite color is blue. Moose can pee for fifteen minutes. Nick Ward can pee for nine. A Creatine-pumped frat once lay a 33 inch terd. There’s nothing worse than bathos and machismo. Sentimentality’s pretty bad too. What is it about men in plaid that just gets me. Do you think we could use a calorimeter on a teenage heart, to see how much energy they waste on angst and bad poetry. The world’s been imploding ever since sniglet became a word.