FORCE-THE-EDGES

Where is my book of lies? Shove it down the spoonful side of a semi-automatically challenged chocolate knocker. Abrasively interesting, yet generally sheep deprived and horribly blasphemous is how I would describe this next film if…

A. I was a cyborg set on “meditation”
B. I was a python sitting on medication
C. I was a nitrous oxide tank getting sent to mediation (for laughing at the teacher)

If you chose A, you are a sociopathic elephant admirer who works 20 to 40 hours a week.

If you chose B, your neighbor is lucky enough to own a half-naked antelope collection.

If you chose C, you are a democrat and your water just broke.

Mr. Linky Linkoogle
3435 Doodno Way
Lincoln, Alaska 68512

Dear Linky:

Melly moolah don’t it make you wanna be a foolah. You will arrive on campus Friday, with three stolen chimps named Oliver and a female dollar bill (no pickles). Like all frostbitten fleas, your ankle will eventually admit to being the ex-president of Maine. After taking the proper precautions, you will start to feel a bit like Santa’s favorite llama container of wisdom teeth that never made it past first base with Liverfloaty (my neighbor’s cat). Yaks will chase you and try to rob you of your theft-deterrent devices. Don’t let them. Because in its own way, having poodles for fingernails is very beneficial, you official! My grandpa says you should try to be more like Charlie’s Angels, and peel flavor crystals off your sister all day.

Please take all these facts into consideration before making your first incision, doctor, because monkeys have always been the loveboat on steroids. Don’t just fix them, shove them in an apartment and call it macaroni, because manufactured goods can’t live more than 80 years without hydrogen cannons of paper millhouse donkey love. Take three of these and call me in the morning, and blow bubbles next to Fidel Castro on your wedding day for me.

Sincerely Yours,

Marvin
Mars Colonization Director

An Inside Joke From The Scientific Community

One day, while calculating the hypotenuse to fully synchronize the pattern enhancer with the ultra-violet moleculizer, I contemplated the outcome of a phase regulator pulse operating in semi-coherency with a timed articulating ionization constant. When I field-tested my assumption, the phase regulator lost particle efficiency and the articulating ionization dropped in coherency. Just then, my coworker Bob entered the room, saw my predicament, and declared “This appears to be dissipation of the ocellation ionization.”

“That may be true,” I replied. “Just keep it out of my molecular particle chamber!”

(This is the story of the anger-inducing cornucopia with no legs.)

There once was a sticky dentist who specialized in asbestos removal. He had just laid down on a bed of Canadian bacon and flower pedals when in walked one of his fucking patients. The grape-flavored patient’s name was Buttermilk Biscuits, and he said “If you give me half a dollar bill and the top of a strawberry, I will tell you that you are going to die, and you will laugh at me for being a duckling in heat.” The dentist fell asleep and said “There is nothing in your mouth accept for that tennis ball, so go away to the land of Mickey Mouse.”

Upon becoming a cyanide wishingwell with a drainage ditch for a soul, you must endure the sonic neutron postulate hanky without chocolate provocation of a dairy cockroach farmer’s sideshow leaflet mockery booze. If lightspeed proves to honk its ugly horn at the subatomic orbit that precedes your indecisive meat slab of a brain, don’t explode. Simply provide a lasso around a charcoal monk’s lego tripwire somatic ankle biter and hope that seven times dog equals Charlie-horse. If not, don’t chase meatball stockings into a corner, only to have your shoelace recite the Gettysburg zipcode. Be a neutrino collector of foreign exchange llamas, and remember that a green card is only as soggy as the Japanese stencil kit that is your appendix.

The odor that emanates from the life giving sugar coated myopian flame flavored candle snatcher is not unlike the lobotomy oriented acoustic matrimony between heart shaped once upon a times and liver coinage drop-jaw enhancers from the great white blue shark that shoots pesos with a lustful monkey wrench while wearing the Caribbean sea as an ill-fitting undergarment. To own the label feeding oyster brigade with a meat charmer for a supervisor is to win at the mouse-shaped semi-customized lottery of communist Arabia.

Yours is the pencap that strikes the ground at a tinted purple rate of seven restless Buddha head cheese packets that were tripped over by a shotgun shell that rushes to Mars whenever the sonic nincompoop delegate jingle bell wishes to take notice of its own semi-digested punctuation headquarters. Don’t be afraid to fall on the static face of the shallow water beacon seeking missile collector’s complementary annual crapshoot convention cruise and then tell me my cat is a one hit wonder that jumps over shower curtains with a spring loaded coco bean. The pelican beak of melting police dolphins is nothing sticky compared to the intricate saliva of a blond crocodile with a polka-dotted sexual innuendo strapped to its toenail clipping with sadistic malformity adhesive.