Monday 7 October 2013

Apologue Four

Look. Charlie don't surf. He do not. A question of grammar; the narrative play out otherwise. He just don't. Oh lord, oh Jesus, make sure they broadcast my death live on Foxtel! Skimp not on the details, I seen nothing better yet. Come on! I am calm, I am ready! Out with it man, give me your vacuum cleaners, I do it me self. My reptile brain, see, it's just no good. Like rotten teeth. I am the dentist around here and I do the dentistry and I do all the dentistry. Lay it on me! The gear, the really good bits! This is it folks, this is it. Or will it be. Surely. Yes, this time for real. Dissipate my existence. We've got freaky Zen koans out the wazoo and special machines what write more if you tickle them with correct posture and dexterity. Here we go now chums and chumettes, strap yourselves into the apparatus which I happen to build real comfy so don't make me have to come down there strap you in personal. All refreshments available at extra charge. We run outta Twix. Sincerest apologies.

My bones like bubble wrap clickety pop outta get it checked out but who has the time? Not I and certainly not you; real life only a nice example of pointillism anyway and we all know that Seurat was as French as they come. I give you good deal, nick your wallet and shoes leave yer Dendritic cells and most of the spine unharmed. A persistent disintegration of memory. We recall John and we recall Johns actions as distinct entities. John put the can in the bin. So who put the can in the bin? It could have been John, he is like that after all. Clearly the whole can thing is a set up. Treasonous little shits. No brand loyalty talk trash about our motives behind our back. Hire someone to level the score; he equalizers things, so to speak - nice and thermodynamic.

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