| Main Page | Literature Index | Part Two |
| Hello, my mouse is the cheese it sat on today. The only thing left to dogwipe is the miracle of fleas, with leftover meat whipping double dipping love snot or it won’t love you. And the policeman just sat there like an acorn bending his pancreas the wrong way till the ambassador of France took notice of cop ointment chigger formula #1. You and others like you will soon be deported to Florida and made to use applesauce as savings accounts and your own hair as clothing for dirt. Being 3 years older than my shoe is what keeps food under the table, because it’s pouting about having to go down the donkey disposal shoot to kill whitey. Green was the liver that exploded into a unicorn on the president’s lap while showing how cheese could be used as a food beverage for thirsty fire hydrant snapping turtle power packs. But that’s a whole nother billygoat gruff, with no possibility for enhancement through spitting on Captain Nowhere and calling your mother a lousy beanstock that never ends. So don’t let the morphine chimpanzee detective holder tell you he’s not just there for the three lizard bleeders and their leftover rifle noses. |
| Smite my definition of a shrew, and I’ll tear you a new one. Swallowed in endless knots of proportion distrophy wadded core fragments, with no reason save that of a fivelegged dog that stumbles after dark. Headed for ramification, I challenged the shrew to include me in all the gang related logic bombs that 3 android chimpanzees could come up with in 30 seconds. Having been unsuccessful, people often leak underwater with a little help from an infamous timeclock by the name of Mothmouth. To look at the numbers on his face is to throw horrifying plasma into the next dimension and wait for the bang. If this is what you call interesting subject matter, you should reexamine your right to keep nuclear waste as a pet. Run away, little rabbit carcass. Oh, that’s right, you can’t. |
| Northbound oxen huggers of corny horseswallower throat nausea (available in testicle form!) These will cheese you till flying is the only thing left of your fingernail chatter control swat team. Only swampfaced nostril dwellers would propose to an imposing proposal imposer who “snakes” his way through tunnels, and “camels” his way through the treetops with the help of an arctic prostitute development team. Knowing my maximum bison level of amusement is helpful when going on long trips to Merryland Happyville, a republic of Clowntown. |
| Barely more interesting than a shark’s tail, and hardly more intoxicating than a left turn in a right-brained vehicle worm. Don’t you love it when the pie tastes so purple that it hurts to giggle when more than three doors are ajar? I know I do. So if you see a grandma-resemblin’, yeehah-yellin’ nugget farmer, be sure to mention the word “wigglepuppy” before proceeding to spell the entire universe on his radius-faced dogwipe of an endtable. By now you should be feeling a bit like Jackie Chan on antidepressants. A slight blue rash is normal (it may spread to your wallet.) But don’t despair, because robot sonic rock-blocker techtonics can only be presented to a jury of 1.5 people. |
| Do away with the chicken, and you can catch results faster thanks to enhanced fraggle knockers on days that end in zero. Why warp to a plastic surgery dimension when the world’s finest bladders are right up your sleeve? I hoped you would understand my possum extinction factory authorized sphincter detonator of a violent sort, but I guess worshipping your father’s ashtray says nothing about the contents of his pipe. You noodle-faced weasel. Why are you even reading this to your 3-year-old daughter? That’s sick. There’s no way she could understand the complex area known as Tubular Magazine’s shit pile of the week. Don’ting and won’ting it won’t make it don’t do things, so don’t won’t it. Lizards. Howling. You get the idea. So do away with the chicken. |
| Lick the face of shock therapy, then compare your results with the astral body odor of an ever-lengthening extension chord, keeping in mind that nothing yellow has ever disproven the possibility of having a horribly disfigured porpoise foot for a desk, no matter how slimy the undercarriage of your favorite gall bladder may seem. Moreover, the less under a cloud you are, the more well-constructed your hand will seem to its giggling fingers, which no nothing of the legend of Thothoth, devourer of astronauts and slaughterer of agricultural hamster enthusiasts. A furry plan indeed, since chipmunks with a mouth full of knowledge and a stomach full of intestines can neither speak nor defecate, let alone calculate the hypotenuse of the circumference of the equation known as Fred. |
| The fascist melody licker inside us all is nothing more than a mouse-encrusted peninsula eater, slapped twice in the name of separatism. Multiply the latest edition of Panhandlers Monthly by the rate of moronic nausea inflation that occurs only during the spastic emperor’s table of contents parade, and you will be guaranteed to find a mummified nickel behind your hypothalamus in 20 years or less. The ancient, semi-castrated gynecologist command counsel of elected service station employee benefit banquet brigade launchers will soon challenge the multi-faceted noise goblin awareness prevention committee to a game of Chinese slurpy hunting, followed by a brief but needle-nosed intermission slug. The outcome will be determined in 75 ways, 3 of which will involve each other in various poorly whittled monkey statue worshipping space frog conventions of religious impotence. |
| Main Page | Literature Index | Part Two |