Parakeet Enorme

If Celine and René had any business sense, they'd make a Pay-Per-View event out of the birth of their next child. I mentioned this to the dickweeds over in advertising and marketing, and they said they were going to need to get a team in there to start doing concept sketches and storyboarding this... which is an excuse (in the advertising business) to fire a few pounds of coke and Comet up the nose, sample some gonorrhea from a former Eastern Bloc country, and get so smashed you'd make Charles Bukowski look like Bill W..

Actually, fuck the team, none of those things are very much fun. Also, last week, I went into the bathroom and one of the people that works in advertising was just coming out of one of the stalls and I said "hi" and they said "hi" and I had a lot on my mind and I then used the same stall but when I opened the toilet seat there was a little biscuit floating around in there still and I can't be around that person without that event preoccupying me anyhow. I think I'll just do the sketches myself. Thumbing through my copies of "The Inferno" and listening to Joan Rivers read "The Bell Jar" on tape, it'll put me close enough to the other side of the Styx that, pretty much, the drugs and whores and booze can all go get fucked, innit?

My parakeet Marcus escaped this morning. This made me very sad, so I took a bath. I heard a pecking at the window a few hours later when I decided to get dressed to go shopping for razor blades, and it was Marcus. But he was seventy-five feet tall and was wearing a t-shirt that said "If you thought parakeets were green, wait until you see my enlarged gonads." Confused, I said "Marcus, what does your tee shirt mean?" He said "Fuck you, asshole, you're not the boss of me. Anyways, you tell me, what does your shirt mean?" And I said "it means what it says." And he said "what does it say?" and I showed him the tee shirt I was wearing which said "It says 'Fuck you, asshole, you're not the boss of me.'"

Then I said, "have you seen the back of my tee-shirt, Marcus?", and he said "No." I turned around so he could read the back, which says "If you have wings and you're wearing a tee-shirt, you cannot fly." Marcus stood, perplexed. It's funny, a seventy-five foot parakeet's expression of perplexosity is the same as in a parakeet only four inches tall.

The dictionary doesn't confirm that "perplexosity" is a word. But the dictionary is wrong. If the right word is "perplexion", and you're perplexed, you would use an acne cream to feel square about it all again, huh? That can't be right. The correct adjective is perplexosity.

That reminds me: The book Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand needs less sex and more giant parakeets. Especially every time Dagny Taggart gets her cooter fluffed afresh, which seems to happen every chapter in that book. Also to illustrate philosophical points. Like a monsterkeet pooping on a train track in New Mexico would pretty much condense forty pages into a paragraph. Ayn Rand was a tree-killer and produced more greenhouse gas than any other writer in history.

While Celine is giving birth to Le Enfant de Income Stream Nouveau, I want to hear and see Oompa-Loompas singing and dancing "I Want Candy" by Bow Wow Wow, I want neon and argon lasers, I want the best visual effects artists in the world, the guys who work for Pink Floyd and Rush. I'd also like to see Julio Inglesias skull-fuck Joan Rivers somewhere in the background, but I don't think that would play well in the latin countries, so fuck that idea. Only when the Oompa-Loompas are doing the episiotomy should the music change... to I dunno. This is where web comments and radio phone-in segments are useful. Call me at (877) 555-1515 to complete this paragraph. If you don't get me on the first try, keep dialing until I answer.

Maybe Marcus can make me some new t-shirts, like "I saw Celine's new baby before she did and it only cost $49.99" and "parakeets rule" and "parakeets rule especially when they are seventy-five feet tall and you try switching from seeds to krill and see if that doesn't fuck you square."

Don't forget, boys. If your date can spell "Chlamydia," she probably has it.

♫♫ I want candy... ♫♫

Letter To The Editor

July 1, 2009
Watermelon Abacus,

When sharply eaten have been to pounding lemonade chickens with warnings coming from mirth and wine slumberings shaped by teeth, it suggests that flat is best. Humps sometimes are good, but from sideways the turn is making three to four amounts not sanctioned by Phyllis or Henry.

Sometimes this puts much harmony within the bee-straps, but for why they are not having a simple hovercraft for these kinds of tasks? Isn't the money of the taxpayer finding too much of a layover in the buttock-shank of the city official and Phyllis and Henry? For smearings:

1. Make a pie bouncing at Jeremy.
2. If sometimes I think this is too large, there are creams and books.
3. Yes, if only juices could be produced on time, Phyllis and Henry have latex which might last a year at altitudes above five thousand feet.
   

It was from many moons that Wolf made corn which communicated with the Sky Monkey, thereby enabling concrete ladling the likes of which were seen best by your grandmother and some of the ladies with whom she discovered what butter was for. This is not to insult Henry, but it thrusts new fluxotine balloons at Phyllis. Frog piston launches upon fedora willingly when the sledded Pollack have sickings with the shitake mushroom. Splash banana fifteen? History will make a decision, for certain, but if the bull has porcelain kneecaps, should we really care that much?

I would pull caramel into spiral growths for the sake of my grandchildren. But when my eyeballs fall to protect the job of the scythe and the spoonings of Henry and Phyllis, is there that much apoplexis for which Mandrove the Quigglethrax will in future shave fur off?

Yours Sincerely,
Dimitrios F. M. Pleanthquinklouchanimpousilousinapapadalodauformithikaskasthrax

Thank You Note for Aunt Milly

Dear Mrs. Ashtoefore,

Thank you for the wonderful porcelain fruit bowl from Spain! It was well crafted and Jennifer didn't "have an accident" when she saw it like last time up at the lake. I can see it was crafted by experts and that you paid a lot of money for it. The bowl was smashed up when it arrived, though, and we were wondering if you intended for us to receive it this way? What should we do with it? Do you want it back? We're very confused and hold you responsible. I was shaking the package and a few pieces fell down into my face and cut my eyelids, cheeks, nose, and lips... I was cut and bled for about three hours. But it was okay because I put on some Willy Nelson and drank three-quarters of a bottle of mop-n-glo.

Remember our gerbil, Phyllis? She committed suicide! Yup. Electrocuted herself with two toothpicks and a nine-volt battery. I didn't think that was possible. My old literature professor says that it's a metaphor for defiance against necessitated societal power structures... I say sometimes a gerbil just goes over and there's no looking back, no matter how many prayers you've said, even the ones you say when you're gettin' pounded from behind.

I have worms again, but the pictures are in color this time! Jennifer made cole slaw for dinner and is out late every night getting her cooter flossed by the Smith boy, the one from over Bayfield. The parrots have loaded the trebuchet with that mixture of suet and goat beer and can't wait for the home game.

We miss you so much... But we are so happy you aren't visiting because pretty honestly you're a really dirty old slut and we don't want the kids to look up to you or be influenced by you in any way! Whore.

Kindly,
RLW