The Paperclips of Destiny

Hey nonny nonny! Tis a manifestation of inner kaboodles! How doth it happen, that such as this could be found dancing on the banks of downtown? Ah, but there is no financing for the bold. Sweet, sweet Italic, how doth I love thee? Let me count the serifs...

Janger-jimers, clinking clanking, ever expanding down the freeway of enlightenment. Oh, inner illumination, shalt thou shine forth today? Or will I continue being dislexic? Neufchatel! Such was the response of the poor man on the bench as the coins filled the violin case. I shall munch on lunch tonight. Ah, sweet day, sweet sun. Oh, my son. Where hast thou been this morn? Have you goosed the cows and milked the eggs? My father, thou knows as well as I, tis no farm out there; the back forty is the highway. Ah, the city. Such wonders it holds, like a maiden on lunar sweets.

Laxatives. Fish were dancing in the stores this morn. Much folly as I attempted a return to waters with them: slippery things doth pass through my hands! She said, hallucinatory cheeses my dear, she said. Ah, but such was not dairy! She said, if so, maybe not, she said.

Hast thou time to tell of time? Which thyme doest thou ask for, child? Why, the present one, sir. Apologies, for I have no gifts for you today.

I had a little girl, her name was Amani and she was made of polyester. Surface wash only, which made for quite a few fun nights bathing with our tongues. But, alas, she did have no response capabilities, so the work was done by hand. Oh, Amani, if only thou couldst speak, maybe you'd wake the neighbors; scale is odd that way. But for the webs of life, guilty would be the plea; not so, for it is pLOVE!

Theophilia is divine, the carving upon the doorway to the oracle. So I came inside and asked, if it is, could it be so? The reply; if it is so, maybe it is not. When you awaken, you will remember your membership in such cults. Cults, asked this. Aye, ducky-boy. Green and I went. Perhaps blue? Darn monochrome glass.

Oh, furry, furry, oh how I adore... I am not a door! I am such as a window. Birds keep hitting me. Piloting errors in the heavens. Don't lift your spirits! Shoplift your spirits! Free wine! It was framed!

Breathing apparatus. Function? To deliver vast amounts of sticky yellow to the tiny sacks, that they might forward the mail to the brain. Second hand, is it? Don't like it, don't breathe. Query of paternity? Does thou be in the way of being a canine of this? Ooh, spanky-spanky, Theodore. Thou knowst I adore thee so; but to butt seems an anal aspect to an otherwise unscented day. If it should please thee, not to send me away via the post. Of previously, it has ended in the no-zip sorting bin. Then we shall peekay you, parakeet! A paragraph break of wonders.

The paperclips want me. They intend harmful things upon my being. The leafs shall not be bound by thou! Rather, the stapler, my long time lover, shall have the honors! He said, you just love those phallic instruments, don't you, he said. A reply of such, Stop squeeling, you naughty little puppy! Momma's gonna make you bark! the reply came among others that night.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!

...and you...

Apples, golden brown and browned gold. Could it be a symptom of the masses that none would attend such solemnity? To say such is to claim fits of laughter during the pregnancy of enlightenment. Do you glow, boy, or is it a medical condition?

Zee plane! Zee plane! Master, they have arrived! Very good, E-gore. Now go play with your sister. Do we all know this song? Incest, incest; you might think it's kinky. Incest, incest; but don't you touch his winky. Angel the jolly, she was and is. If it weren't for him, I'd have myself a fine little line of a line up for saturday night; which is not a good day for bagels.

Havana! Sporking and porking, momma's li'l baby loves short'nin' bread! But I love mine long and stale! Aged nice and hard! Where's me butter and cream? Lentils, lentils, we want lentils. Living in a world of commodified fetishization, having found my alienation, I retire to the cubical of space deemed my own, to explore the vast waves of thoughts and dreams within such minds as I may please. She said, I see the fish too, chuffer, she said.

This has been No Ado About Much, of the mind of Lord Chuffer, Minister of Fetish brought to you by the friendly folks at The Sequal Production Company 473: Is that a stapler in your drawer or are you just happy to see me? and by The Under Core.

"Oh my goth, I want to die, die, dye my hair black, paint my face white, and staple my hand to my forehead!"