Tuesday, September 08, 2015

barking up the wrong ankle

Celebrating the mysterious November 31st is much like the way turpentine is used at the International Gargle Fest of Cambodia in the year between 1982 and 1983. Musculature that parades around like a neon Seminole kite-flying expedition describes the best paint job a coal mine can sell. That cryogenically freezing ice cubes to put into your tea cup is worthless as an experiment makes milking an obstreperous dandelion a national pass time in countries that have three or more syllables. Placing accents on letters that begin with the number window is just as immature as someone purposefully mismatching their socks on Tuesdays.

If you were to doubt the PH level of a flagging dirigible, flagging a ground hog in the hopes of chasing down your vodka with a lemur is likely not the best way to lodge a complaint with the department of apt elocutionists. I should know.

That Germany will welcome half a million refugees says a lot about the people of that country, but says even more about the leadership in other countries. As topical as the previous sentence may have been, it doesn't elevate this post even an iota lower into the scintillating fragrance reserved for Zamboni races and truck stop bathing units.

If I was to elect the future leaders of two major North American countries, I'd be sure to use a balloon and dart mechanism.

It is 22h49 as I type this sentence. I ought to be going to sleep soon, but it seems I am stuck composing this post.

A burgeoning left handed tissue box named Alfred wandered haphazardly beyond a derelict forest, scything to and fro like an enamoured goat herder. That the author of this post would introduce a character this far into this post is not a coincidence. Alfred suffered terrible existentialism problems whenever she felt the need to blow her nose, and being near a forest, her tree pollen allergies were acting up. Asking for a Snicker's bar slogan gave Alfred a headache, much the way yuletide carols sung on June 31st require excessive amounts of elbow grease that smells of sweaty digital wrist watch bands.

Leaving the character of the previous paragraph behind, we move forward into the subsequent paragraph. The image of a red stapler used only twice was a dream some robot had last week while commuters debarked from their twenty-seven year old mass transit vehicles. If I was to guess, it must have been a Roomba.

Please, as much as possible, if you've read this post all the way down to this very sentence.


Zhoen said...

Can I send you a bit of immodium?

Phil Plasma said...

I suppose you could, but I don't know that it would help.