Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Let's Argue

During the Swivel War when Colonel Harlan Lee Harvey Booth sashayed down the runway with his beaming headlights pregnant with tassels, there were unspeakable rumors of brothers smiting brothers down at Ye Ol' Political Woodshed. And who was pulling the strings again? None other than that clown-head-buried-deep-in-the-collective-mammaries -- "Jejune Jacques de Mountebank"!

He's the one to watch this Season on ABC, D, E, & Effin'-G.

Indeed, many a bearded wannabe fell to the charms the musket's yawn that fateful morning. Another wispy prat never to see the glories of a steaming donut stuffed with shaving cream. It was a bitter shite. You could stack the carcasses end-to-end and sideways, but what for? For it would have been better to have gone surfing that day. All this waste, simply because the TV broke down once again. In these days, Indian test pattern brought in pestilence and lawsuits late from the cleaners.


When Dad read this, he took his newspaper and rolled it into a mighty tree trunk, then smoked it gingerly at the dovetails. His quest for the perfect carton of milk had, once again, been thwarted. With deep furrows in his plantation cornrow, he marshaled his five daughters to pick up arms, legs, and vacuum Europe spotless before the health inspector arrived. But when the white-gloved Pekingese armada arrived by sea, taking Dad unawares, they discovered wagon wheels and arrow heads scattered in an untidy manner among the prairies.

Enter stage left: a strutting moose wearing an 11-gallon hat bellowed unto these lost pickles-for-brains saying, "Verily, for we must argue and not know why, until another generation has passed wind and packed my verbal payload into holy cannons".

This is why the electric President and his cabinet full of animators will pour latex over their skeletons everyday at noon for the kids. With sinews of steel and pumping cylinders, they know precisely which toes you need massaged. If there wasn't a sensual kink in their days of waning prowess, wigwams would still stand. You could even park your car there and order a rootbeer. But no.

5 comments:

Cocovan said...

I tried to sashay this morning and bruised my spleen, Yet unbenounced to me I have arisen a better flogger for it, Do you catch my drift wafting toward the morning dew? I concur on several of my points but must amend the latter for it is written in the bowels of one mighty beast to behold I bring tidy joys for all to consume and ponder........

Geritopia said...

i dig.

cue the bongos.

Joey Polanski said...

Witout no sensual kink, I wont xpeckt no injuns t pitch no wigwams. No what I mean?

paul said...

I used to have a moustache. -Nice one, too.

linduh said...

at first i thought it said, "edison's pornographic doll." i'm a bit disappointed, both in myself and edison. oh, and you also, gerit.