Saturday, September 23, 2006

IT REVOLVES AROUND THE TIRED GUMS LIKE A HANDGRENADE, ROSARIO!


Posing as the mightmare of Overdrive, the weightlessness in a dolls bottom, it became easier to breathe. I'm not going to look up a new kind of disease, suss out its parts, and then pulverize it into a Robert Burns somnambulist radio show. Hardly. Nestled in my favorite tv show socks are the cameras.

The cameras that make weightlessness in a Robert Bruns style ascot.
Picture me screaming "Its not great the way a heart goes bad when its filled up with this American way!" Picture me above some family member of yours, running my mouth off, spitting all over that little character as i speak, then making love to them.


Picture a knife in the heart of a gallon of soup. Then talk to me. Then, talk to me.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Carbukle Praries Ride!



Hwllo!
I made new friends tonte! We were to make frends with the apollo, but instead we make waylay and try to argue new friends to courtship!



Not much more for us to realize we needed help; if only prarie manager and associated drinkingbuddy could assist us, we would to lose the nervouz. Bt, to swallow the ashtray mouth and try for forgiveness the banter-slap anguish and aching smart-hole.




Still, are we to be blamed for the snake-handlers, the boor-ish slovonites, nor the putemishly shaped brow of the esquimauex. Raather should we be the forebear, the provincial truth-shaper, the cacique malaysian? If anything, I think our apathy is our badge of laquadyciKalitty, something the "square community" would love to shut down.



Dijnoscars died because they lost favor of fashion.

I AM AN OUTLAW, YOU ARE MY GRANDPA, SHUT UP, I HAVE FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS BURIED UNDERNEATH THE CORNER OF MY HOUSE.

peace,
Otamar.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

Umbillically through its beckoning door--Come Awn!



Uncomfortable lemon rack, I am up to my tits in swiss cheese. It ain't that difficult to imagine possible worlds out of this. Picture David Lewis, as seen above, high in the loom of gmy face with a nightgown stashed away in his lung? Did you? Well, then you're one step ahead of the daily diary of "off you go when we need you most," vehicles. Nightly. A bride of blondinstein. Nothing more to say her except that there is no "our father" prayer left in me. Dear "our father" ...I don't get it. Our father, of the spritely vesicles, let corn flakes change thy name.