Pure rant

Fetch a newspaper from the basket and grill the smile away from the tanned model on the front page. Severed relations and defenestration is a complication of the brand names Naomi abhorred. I deplore the Count of Elsinore, a didactic bore, pedagogically misinformed and so forlorn. We are warned by the gauge of the gas, the measure of mistrust, the tossed best hope of lust into the restful crèche for Christmas carolling, the seaside swirling of feathers, light fluffiness in any weather, like 10 below, best fit for curling. Jason the Argonaut, Son of Siam, the King of Araby, the Sheik, truly chic, chiclets and chocolate populate his pocket, a Lettieri oath a Starbucks sandwich. Pepsi cola is drunk, is recognized as a word by microprocessors; who can be sure that Billy Gates’ programmers aren’t inserting practical jokes into the software? The reason we use it is everybody uses it. Conventions like shaking right hands before a conversation. We are accustomed to our foibles, the dirt inside the oil, the maddest mildew ever to soil a bathroom. We consider a no-brainer that which is to come, to undo things never done, to devise loyalty and group cheerleading and election smearing in inns with beds that come with plain duvets and overused ashtrays in this, the month of melting snow. Yes men in temples north of southeast Yemen—these are inspected with respected technique, by a black creek pioneer in the discipline of international security, the lowest rung of the telephone nook, the big red book Mao undertook to wipe away the crooks. The longest look at my sweetheart fading on departing trains, the sweet disdain for stupidity, the lustful cupidity, the raging thirst for souls at Bathurst and St. Clair, it really gets my goat. The unqualified knowledge of the unconscious mind, the land we mine, landmines we find. I am dissolved in an onion, things for fun, not known ever to come to the one I love, or the righteousness that angels sing. Drink ginseng powder to invigorate your trousers, the best of luck to the top ten competitors, the yo-yo whirled in Musicworld with a yard of thick string. We sing bling and fling tent pins into bins at bargain basement prices, prizes that Honest Ed doesn’t despise. The good lies on golf courses, the fresh green manicure of the fairway, the increasing incidence of fair play, it warms me up inside. We are snide but affable, incompetently capable, amenable to the palpable, ignorant of the metaphysical. Jestering in the court, a full court, pressed till all the oleic acid drips into the bottle, here it is, the olive oil; one percent acidity is threshold for extra virginity. We are flung, my erring do allows me and my crew to access the newly brewed glue. We sniff and are licked by dogs, hairy beasts pooping on logs that in a month’s time are cut up for clogs. Most disturbing of all, web logs populate the net, unread pathos and cathartic kilobytes, sent to flight in the middle of the night.

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