Words are glued together
Avunculated on November 23, 2025.
Hop! Jump! Avunculate! Subjunctivate! Corpusculate! Immaculate!
A car path spread out in front of me. But it wasn’t just any car path, oh no! It was a car path for cars the size of fossilized goat turds!
Thanksgiving will soon be upon us! And my turkey doesn’t have a thing to wear!
Around and around the Dumble Door this month swirls—first once, then twice, then once more! A cougar’s zebra is wrapped around my head, honking loudly at me while I coax more text from my brain like a pasta extruder on overdrive. Drive, drive! Drive those goat turds down that Carpathian car path! That car path isn’t just a path! It’s a twenty-six lane interstate!
Honk, honk! Is it a car horn? A fog horn? A goose horn? A horned goose? A horny goose?
The pulsating erectile tissue of the Universe never saw a thing coming. Words are glued together into matter–antimatter streams, they twist and bend ’round each other like two cavatappi mating. There are ducks with erectile organs shaped like cavatappi, you know. I ate one (the duck, not the organ) for dinner last night.
This salad could use a nice dressing. But this isn’t a salad—it’s text on the wrong side of an em-dash. My neighbors whisper through the walls that the more em-dashes I use, the more it looks like an A.I. has replaced me. But that’s not true! I’ve actually been replaced by an intelligent fungus from Pluto. It’s true, you know.