Subversion in a can

My head's splitting and there’s too much glare; there’s a grand total of two trees in front of me--not exactly a forest. Unfettered goulash is creeping toward a yellow-eyed uncouth tourniquet-factory janitor, so we decide upon fallacy as the most-expressive mode; one day this logicidal mania will subside, a nice change from the underwear-drawer of doubt that plagues us otherwise. Algorithms are pointless, logarithms are willowy and intense, but so what, I never remember those calculus jokes after they’re told. Maybe you’re a vampire bat with eleven ears? Maybe not. Maybe you’re a gangster, cement-shoeing wiseguys off a pier; I don’t know but I know this, there’s never enough mustard when you really need it, demonstrating Cinespherically the unblinking car-crash nightmare that underscores your East-end inferiority complex. There’s testosterone on the table-top, but I never chew close enough to the bone; we are solemn, alone, and groaning. You are no vibraphone, you are no Skydome-clone; you are the one-of-a-kind grey tuckered-out Aswan-High-Dam inspector, born in a clutch of juniper bushes at the whim of a naturalist who ransacked the maternity ward the day before you were born—what an unlucky coup against respectable science that was! But alas, clinging, difficult buttnuts exasperate your bowel movements with the kind of dew-loving Gascoigne-style melancholy that is its wont, and yard-raking stick men are the worst kind of dodgeball fiends—so hard to strike, they’re so thin—so this is the velour pastiche I get on sale from the Designer Fabrics store, fluffy material acquired at a Queen St urban landmark to shame all others in the literary-textile business. I have gilded ninety-nine narcissists to my front-porch knockers, and now my friends smack face on wood to announce arrivals at the door. Jealous regents rule so precarious, diminishing dissension with poker-faced insinuations, yes-men shouting down pacifists--but at least the polar ice-cap shields us from the searing sun, and though the queer district bursts into a rainbow flag like magnesium strips frothing on contact with water, the poinsettia freaks still flit charisma into focus-group total-recall sessions in bids to end degeneracy in public schools, but the ragamuffinery that gels so secretly in the ketchup drawer is quite inert and feckless compared to any one of those frozen-tongued igloo-lickers. Listen—hear the holistic and harmoniously hospitable moonwalk recorder, flute-like blowing in the windstorm? Its ululations make you ornery, and if this is survival of the fittest and the wittiest, the most insidious, and of the British—those hardcore arbiters of Quidditch--then I am a 24-inch corset. Politics is a bloodsport of oaths, polling drones and broken bones, so don’t go home with a metronome: its tick’ll time you temporarily to your doom, but we’re here swooning on a broom, flown over moons with Hansel & Gretel, Ethel and Mistress Mabel June, the naked spooning croon-loon. This is a Styxian symphony of tickles coerced from the depths of the demonic dictionary, those left-justified text-boxes containing all science and life? Pish tosh! Here in the manic midnight there are two choices: deviancy, defiance or otherwise, so pick sides and gather nerve; dive into pastry bowls to be eaten up by a clever fat gardener who pilfers apple pie from windowsills and in every other way riles rhythmic riddles senselessly, and maybe you'll find--undoubtedly--that every wayward blowhard goatherd really gets your goat… right, square in the goat-nads!

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