The green apple bee-bop
Hydrated on May 20, 2012.
No adultery happened. Frogs blasted their venticores anyway. Manticores and a stew simmer on the stove. Goats. Goats. Always with the goats. And RFIDs sway gently in the ermine breeze upon their hairy stalks. Chalk. Chalk. End-of-line.
You’re out of ur-time, duckpals! Who you gonna call? Goatbusters! Goats. Goats. Goats lolling swayingly in the Bieberesque sunset. Horses. Hoarse horses. Venticores, manticores, and nattery cores. Cor Caroli said it best: Dormfuddies abound. Chalk. Don’t end the line yet—bubbily. I added another accent mark to my name: “Pnǻrp”! Okay, end-of-line, bub.
No, really: Adultery happened. A Volkswagen, a beetle, and a stinging nettle. They saw it. Jada Fire hides in a tree stump, barefoot and plastered, awaiting the passing of the bare-bones yttrium and parliamentary trickery. Egrets stand aboundily around the well-done plane, dorsiflexing and planting their heels in the source of all evil (a black ewe). The old word “negress” bubbled to mind, but that word didn’t apply here. “Ebony goddess.” Ebonized? More ebonied than the last? An ebony ass? A bad-ass? I prefer being a good-ass, actually. Tubular, dude. End-of-goat.
Quoth the server, “404.” Forevermore, and nevermore, and what a gore-dorned and purple-pored whore. Dormfuddies? Well, if that there is an ashtray—then, certainly! ’Twas I who was out of ur-time, again. I wondered what would happen with all the eka-time, though. A stopwatch? Or a stopped clock? Right down to the decisecond? Or only right twice per day? Ganglia and axons stretched out for the chickens, roosters, and kangaroosters. “Lennep standita,” the captcha said. And then “dentarys discus.” I lollygagged a bit more, then started posting pictures of underage PEX to the image board I infuse with bytes on a daily basis. Blumbholes, blumbholes, and a bit of dormfuddery, too. I was wearing my best, most well-wainscoted pair of dormfuddies. In the shower lines. In the breadbox. In the doo-doo da-goo and mulpicious brøderbundery, too. I was even nine-gagging Lady GaGa and her bubble-congerie dress this time.
End-of-line!
New ¶aragraph.
Goatianity explains it all. See Genesis 15:9, Matthew 25:41–45, and Capetians 987–1328. Or see 18 U.S.C. § 1030(e)(2), which criminalizes the tater-totting of goats, the elderly (“old goats”), and little children named after recipients of the Medal of Honor. Middle-of-line. And then God said, “Let there be moose!” And there were moose. A moose in a caboose? Or a moose in a papoose? But I was unsure about one thing: Was she my red-haired second cousin, 1⅛ times removed—the one with the great hoo-hahs? Or my first and only sister (Plårp!), nine inbred children later?
Ravna wasn’t from Ravenna—or as the Romagnoli say, “Ravêna”—but she sure was ravenous sometimes, and ravishing always. So I broke open another can of potted meat. The NFPA-compliant electrical outlets approved. My Batman sense was tingling; the spiders sang, and Spiderman invaded another thread about brothers and sisters doing the inbreeding thing. I wished the potted meat was pornèd meat but it wasn’t.
Finally, all this hazelnuttery came to a cease. Or did it? (Hazelnut? Hazelneburt!) I remembered that on the first day, doG said: “Let there be furlings.” There were never any furlings, so I became quizzically nonplussed. There was however, on that first day, bear shit.
“I found you, didn’t I? You rooster-sucker.”
Blips blipped by, blipping out the blips of their unblippable blippinitude. Electrican cord-breakers notwithstanding, a goat farmed the Korn field: Hey, he said, forgetting the quotation marks—“Don’t you have a superscripted trademark symbol somewhere around here?” Volgolskin did. Volgolskin had one, that is. Comrade Volgolskin™ was the skinniest yet most barrel-chested Communist comrade this side of the future Soviet Union, but he heartily believed in the filthy capitalist notion of trademark, copyright, and ass-branding.
“Ayup,” came the reply, with nary a hint of Russian accentuation. The wind blew. Flies blew. The goats were flyblown, but that didn’t stop the frorpniz bangleblaster from grumpening the idgerious horstradiator until it popped under extreme pressure. Transparallel intersexuals were even able to get married now, but a man of my nature was still prohibited from marrying who—and what—he wanted. Echelonious felons carbunked the scions of goat-grim science, as I went a-yerking and plufnerking along.
Next year a girl who yiffed, along with ’er sister, would become my newest voluptional obsessionaries, but I didn’t know that yet. 2013 was only around the corner, but it was not here yet. I only knew that Fate would drop these two on me like a ton of dingdrapes, and only electro-shark therapy would cure me of the coming obsession.
Time to rock on, dudes. Close this down—then there’ll be creamer-puffers zombingling about the fluffnugglies, don’t ya know. End-of… no, wait. A boof. A boof. A boof bisoned around until it could buffalo no more. Antlers? Carpenter antlers, sonny boy! Brap! Brzzzap! A lightning rod screamed loudly. Horses wesseled about, hoarsely pouring the lyrics of the “Horst Wessel Song” into coarse glass vessels. End-of… wait for it… line!
Rain fell upward in sheets. Somewhere, amongst barking dogs and pilfering nail-piggers, there were bad, bad writers studying this blog for inspiration. Squish! Squish! Honk, donk! Copies copied copiably. The old department store Ames came to mind when I realized I needed a new roll of toilet paper. They sold lots of women’s clothes. Horse-pepper burble.
“I’m so wistful! I’m full of wist!” the telephone conversation began. It didn’t get any better after that. “Steak bombs are cool. Can you even order a steak bomb in an airport restaurant? Would it cost $6.95, £6.95, or even ₤6.95?”
Peppy horses bubbled and croaked, as puppy-horses dingled their hamster-berries. Only 22% of California’s eighth-graders pass a national science test. And startlingly, only 808‰ of them can spell their own gnarfidious grandpooties’ names, too. Energized electrodes could solve both these problems, if only they were applied appropriately and with enough panache. Yet there was still the conundrum of the Oliphaunt Man and the zucchini Christ: He was an elephant man, all right… but more gaunt and wraith-like. Gaunt like an oliphaunt. She always kept a pair of battery clamps in her pocket—one never knew when those would come in handy, after all—but she had nothing to do with this particular story, so we can blithely ignore that and move on to goats and boats and butter sticks, and cabbages and pings. Goat butter? Goat butter. Goat butter: A fashion that, as fashions changed, vanished into the mists of time. Or “from the pages of history,” as one particular Iranian cleric had clerked about in the year 2525.
2525 was not just around the corner. But 2013 was.
A man was. He was. His name was Doofus. He was shaped like a doofus, and had a mouthful of miniature doofi in place of human teeth. Roosters riled and swarmed the geese. The geese roosted—nesting lilithly—and concealed their handguns and rifles for later use. Off in the distance, Nestlé made chocolate bars, chocolate goat broth, and chocolate-flavored piña coladas.
Her name was Doofa. But she wasn’t shaped like a doofus at all—more like a tin can that had been pumped too full of botulism and then burst at the seams in a fit of tin pest not seen since the Four Horsemen took up metalsmithing instead of horse-riding and pestilence-spreading. Goats were the game. Goats lost the game, like you just did. Goats shaped like footballs were the game. Groats ’n’ goats played soccer, football, and even fartbull. And on this day, two hours and forty-four minutes ago, a man ate a pi pie while sitting on a log and dancing the goonflayve to the Cheerios song. Lastly but not leastly, Veesey-Koosey’s Geesey-Goosey Pub was back in town, goosing it up as usual.
In the morning I put to death all the wicked of the land, that I might cut off all the workers of iniquity from the city of the Lord. Or so Psalm 101:8 said. I set myself a new goal for this Thursday.
Smuck!! Now the captcha tried to tell me “Jer. hudschen” but I refused to believe it: A wind chime shaped like a fish twinkled in the European boatball breeze, but all I had was mothballs, swineballs, and cat eggs. It was a life lesson learned lividly. Cat feet. Dog toes. Lizard tails. End-of-chalk. End-of-line. Ducks, alpacas, and stew. Psionic scions of echelonious felonry: Again and again and thrice again. Edema-chalk. Goat-stalks. I mulch my lawn with new, used, and recycled goats. Goats are so versatile. Versatile is the goat… and the groat-boat of gullious glue.
Not just smuck… but, sműck!!
The Sneŗtman cometh, but the Angry Banana stopped him dead in his tracks. Another angry banana gabbled and twitched on the couch in the dim-lit room. Dim bulbs shuffled in and out wondering why the Яepublican Party hadn’t won an election since 19-hundred-&-two. Hydrangeas hydrated themselves with the musk of Appalachian Grinch-Geese. And the band played on. And on. And on. End-of-line.
“Interderpmensional typographical sadomasochism.” That was what he said—before he died and took the whole rock group with him. The group was called Jimmie Johnson and the Butthole Supremes from 1979 until 1982, or so Wikipedia told me. But his name wasn’t Jimmie Johnson, it was Doofus. Farntable were the goatflobs: On this side of a colon, they were bent over a table and moo-moo-mooing as the grorp-beast florped and bnorped and the miggly-puffed þespians danced the voop. End-of-goatbusting.
Move, werese! Eshirg teachers. And tdifices. Sntratg been, rezzar tchelec, description sshowt. 50 oimesti! It was all about the captchas now. “MIB3” was written on the anserine side of my translucent, plastic Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup. I sipped the jidgeous coffee slowly, relieved that the Dunkinclerks hadn’t packed my cup with weasel turds this time. His misshapen, pulpy head jounced a negatory. “A-nope,” he gabbled in a voice rougher than that of a Drano-soaked hen. “Post successful!” Pleasure washed over me. Edema-chalk again.
End-of–start-of-line. Doing the green apple bee-bop and the olig-bolig boogey-woogey woo was my goal now: Twin goals, in fact. Not since the Logical Journey of the Zoombinis had I seen something so clearly boolean.
A life lesson learned lustily, I lilithed. The Sneŗtman was goneth.
A fiery pyre of red hair the ælfẃýń had, as she was beset amidst a field of electrican goatferns. The ferns adorned her apornment with lithe gorplicity and an almost serpentine gorbosity. Sneep!
The autumn wood, the aster knows.
Simmy. Simmy.
Full stop. ◊