i really mean it

Grrrarg bloop! My kung fu guano erupts! This ceiling is unable to withstand my brunt, it’s too soon for that. Away in my ultimate tub! I don’t want to be tied down. Yet, the frood is beyond me once more.


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Panels too long for work, pages unimaginable. Grumbles replicate beyond my needs. 43 grams won’t provide for my artistry and neither will the failure of pear juice to exist in a gaseous form. What’s going on with this occipital lotion anyway?


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Small towns filled with fuzzy haired girls arguing over the societal pressures in Winnipeg. They are too far away to feel Moscow in their minds. Am I Oriental? Or is that a name for carpets and not peoples? It is not my place to decide. Ask Leonard Nimoy perhaps.


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Crying out against the window of unopening heated sufferings! SMASH! I free me as Diminutive Asian Man screams, ”FEAR THIS!” From his windshield screen, finally depositing the wild bronco in a mini van. The cell phones will hear of this. The guilty parties like so much coloured glass t l n on the asphalt drive.
i n i
k
g
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Crabby spelunkers mature studenting across the barren plains. Where are all the Polish South Asians? UNICE! UNICE! I’ve forgotten your name! European holidays give me the butterflies when all you feel is caterpillars.


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This spiked ball of lunacy! This sordid tyrant of evil consisting almost solely of squat broad shouldered fellows. Reeking of women and self satisfaction I retch on their glistening patent leather shoes bellowing, “I’M AN ARTIST! IT’S OKAY!”

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Water fountaining severely on the elderly professor’s severed head carries weight but only when multiplied by your weight on the moon and divided inversely by the radial mass of a soggy cheese sandwich. Otherwise it’s just rubbish, if, that is, you can somehow manage to remember all that.


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Poppycock! Poppycock! This print media has Mud and Bugs all over it! So much so, I’ve filled my depends. Those plants over there will be fertilized nicely.


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Dancy Dancy Dancy,
pointy toe pointy toes,
my leotard’s not fancy.
I’m not old I’m dead!
HEY! HEY!


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Frank Mills being butchered by an old man who should know better, little kids purchasing life changing records and strange spandex and sequin clad lilies of the valley eerily disguised as little girls prancing and practising aesthetic gymnastics. It’s all a conspiracy for oil. Of that I’m certain.