Abortifacient skies, the burning air
Slobbered all over on September 11, 2005.
This weekend, I stared at the open winds while the windows blew by with a whirling noise like that of a whale caught masturbating on a hot tin roof. The abortifacient skies answered me, their screaming stars streaming imperturbably and glibly astonishable. I honestly cannot tell you what the hell any of that means.
The burning air.
I attended another Sicilian rat-fighting contest this Friday (the rats lost; I won—but almost lost my jugular as a result!), and I won myself another triangular briefcase! It had three sides on the outside, and was painted blue, and had seven sides on the inside! I think I’m going to use it to hold all the pictures of Alyssa Milano’s feet that I’ve collected in my many, many years. (Alyssa Milano has very, very pretty feet, and even cuter toes.)
I heard (from one of the rats) that next week the prize will be a Carpathian Stinking Hound! I think I shall enter the contest again. I want a new stinking hound.
The abortifacient skies… how they enjoy hurling their screaming stars at me, their floating mathematical constants and eigenfactors (along with some eigenvectors and eigensausages sometimes), and how they do enjoy squirting out lawn gnomes by the armful. The lawn gnomes descend gracefully in their salient parachutes, churning and burning on their way down, over open sights, as they fall, but fall they do, and by the bushel!
Oh!! My dear brother Grårp, back from the grave after Samuel Dreckers killed him so many centuries ago (and that poor Mr. Wilson), will be visiting me this week! I can’t wait!