Spooky Stole My Noodle scanning the floor for leftover appendages.

Sunday, January 04, 2004   Dudley Spooky Westchester Pontiac Christmas: It's just been too long a time since we've had a mippage alike to that, and now that I'm having seeinged it (that isn't the word "singed," nor is it pronounced as such in the hindquarters,) I'm just feeling like really there's no excuse for why there hasn't been some sort of flashbangery coming from these quarters for. Sometime, I mean. I have an excuse, not to be too lie about it, there's always an excuse, just not really an excusably recognizable one, that is to say one that would voluntarily up and ship itself off to the front in order that otters might live. Chipmunks, squirrels, that might be different. But fucking otters. Can't be bothered. Then again: watching your news broadcast from the headinglands of Egypt, where Tony Blair recently sat on an earthquake monsoon with his family picture show so that he could expostulate upon George W. Butt's exceptional facial control, I was rung into this already started nude year by a startling oragami of sawed-off grass and a heap of trouble. Where DID we get our notion that this is a run of the hill mip year, and not some cosmically altered, perf-ect because it's-now and HERE timeframe that only we are priveleged enough to have come upon? That is to say, though I didn't said it, that is to have said something about how your newscast rang a bell in my batfry and I nearly impaled myself on an ice-cream scooper. It's common knowledge that I can't eat it. That's not all, though. Those excuses I wouldn't have excused only a moment ago are playing in my belly like hotsauce. I love to eat lemons whole, without even biting down. I've had a some sort of sick for some week, and prior to that I didn't even wanted to say anything ever, and still. I'm meaning something here, I thought, but then it's not being meant, so what the fuck do I know about it? You've been in Dubai smoking Hong Kong while I'm over here trying to calm his brother King down before he knocks over another fucking building. The old boy's a perv, too, likes to reach into the windows where women brush their hairs and pull them out into the air and listen to them squeal. Can't say as I blame 'im: if I were that big I'd probably throw people around, too, and it'd be all I could do not to hump the side of a sky-scraper while I were doing it. Fuck bananas, they're tiny compared to towering apes. What he needs is to eat a fucking tree. But there's no cheese sauce that large, and I've got other delicious news to not talk about. I've got a DVD burner now, I'm very energetic to say, having researched and read my way into my usual stupor of "oh fuck it I have no idea what the fuck to do let's just go to the store," and having there picked the one device, out of the seven or so they had, about which I hadn't read a thing, by some company I hadn't heard of, which was in fact nearly the most expensive one. Digital Research something-or-other. It's a fast one, or so it tells me, with some kind of 8x DVD +R burning, not that I'd be able to really test that as all the blanks DVDSsses they had at the shoppe only rate at 4x and so I wouldn't want to waste my sex. I already used the one that came with the burner but I didn't pay attention to what speed it was set to. Spooky "fancy-new-fake-looking-address-designed-to-confuse-us-about-who-you-really-aren't," you might be now be be now asking yourself just where in this mip this whole mip went wrong. Was it the part about King's brother Hong, or before that? From the very get-go, you might be saying, yes, from the very start this thing was such a fucking catastrophe that it probably would've made more sense for me to have buried my fucking pants beneath this heap of used facial tissues which SHOULD by all rights be called nasal tissues but never are to the best of my mench, instead of getting right in here and rambling on about some goddamn gibberish that was doomed to failure before I even woke up this morning. Now all that's left is for me to figure out what pieces I need to buy for a different computer altogether, whether or not to buy one of those little fuckers that will hold barely a card, but which I'm just enamored of, about, or, or to just replace some of the bare basicallies of this one and see where my fucking membrane errodes away the shore. Yon shore, yes, it is the day. Oh, we've come so far and here are to be defeated by a well-placed parking meter, as we've brought no coins with which to fill it, and a ticket from the meter maids of this new land, with this annoyingly small shore, would be enough to have us locked away for the rest of our lives, or at least for the rest of this evening, as we've not a fold ot spindle with. It's time then for me to turn this fucker around and see if I can't find myself a bag. - Elgin Pee, from his fifth letter to the Gumdrop Kid posted by Kingo Sleemer | 4:12 PM		contactions contact kingo contact spooky archives links squub