Fourword

Big fish sushi smorgasbord.

A Bigger Fluffy Picture

So, how did everyone enjoy last week’s ENDPOLITICIANS.COM article? For me, it was most certainly the bestest and most favourite article to which said punctuation butcher, yours truly, has ever had the privilege of materializing in the minds of those interested enough to gaze into the abysmally fulfilling abyss of alternate dimensions varyingly altering the space-time continuum of gravitational forces exuding the threshold of 32-24-36 orbiting encompassment of furtive adulteration sullied exploitatively in none other than the distractive chaos to that of which some have come to hypothesize as that of the Big Bang. To which one might reply: “If it really were such a Big Bang, then definitively aforementioned delineated dimensions must assuredly be altered to, at bare minimum, in space rock protuberant accountability, amidst planetary midriff accoutrement, accompanying unfurled celestial ceremonious orbiting achievement to spacesuit, or is it suited spacing, to that of  36-28-42, no?” And for the ladies, let’s just say, shall I give, a stage seven rocket booster blast-off to escape such an ever thinning atmosphere in Big Bang discovery exploratory mission!? Blah blah blah, and something about them all being pink on the inside. Hmm, does such a stage seven rocket booster have insulating heat shielding?

Oh, right. Last week’s article – zilch, zero, zip, goose egg, nada, cheerio, lifesaver, sucking head wound…the bestest and most favourite article of my making! But how could such be, one might ask? Well, it said everything without actually saying anything at all. You know, like a bellybutton which fills up with detached T-shirt fuzz that has been worn off from many working hours of T-shirt to belly hair chaffing, only to eventually come to rest in said fleshy catchment vessel. It all just miraculously rolls into one for a bigger fluffy picture, subsequently left for deposit in the I of the beholder. What, don’t tell me I am the only one to have such a fuzzy phenomenon happen on a regular basis? Personally, I just think of it as a form of pre filter to which will undoubtedly save myself and clothes dryer the hassle of filtering out, then removing, an extra few grams of lint trap bothering per year. Of course, it is also just a literal abrasive way for one to contemplate one’s navel. Please, say a prayer for all of the outies!

Alternate dimensions, stage seven rocket boosters, endless fuzzy phenomenon contemplation, space rocks, goose eggs, Big Bang, T-shirts, lint traps, sucking head wound, all pink on the inside, louse foreshadowing, fleshy catchment vessels; what else could possibly defile thine synaptic turnstiles in further sub-galactic adverse discovering emittances mercilessly rumbled of such tastelessly delicious skewbald dissemination? Christ, if he knew that they probably wouldn’t have tried to iron out all of his kinks in such penetrative letting, leaving him open to such a gilt ridding cross examination. Now, go figure, perhaps in a bobblehead dashboard likeness display of character? Yeah, it all seems to have been worth the weight after all, dumbbells included. Oh, are they ever included! Chockablock. Brimming roil. Geysered out. Fashionably in.

Diarrhea of the Psyche

The enlightened universe. If there is one thing it thoroughly enjoys, it is for the unenlightened universe to be lambasted in shish kebab thoroughness. That is if there were such a thing as that of an unenlightened universe. Piddly worlds, minuscule backyards, over-ossified pudding containment vessels, alphabet cringing muck dwellers – yeah, that’s more like it, it just fits, into the confines of ineffectual insecure ignorance. Dumbbells included. Oh, are they ever included! Lightweights indubitably, so easily curled, then curdled. The next step, step down no doubt, of an alphabet cringing muck dweller is none other than a formative panged paragraphical panicking. Yep, those piddly worlds, stuck stepping in their shite piled minuscule backyard dwelling ever more recessed into over-ossified pudding containment vessels. Did somebody say ding-a-ling gonging nitwits? Or perhaps such terminology insults the intelligence of an actual louse based nit void of registrable wit? That my friends is a toss up that surely only an unenlightened universe piddly world dweller could unquantifiably qualify for, right along side said parasitic ovum that is.

The cartoonish criminal underclass adjoining societal ignorance personified. Ultra maroons one might say! All pinko on the inside too! All of that wasted energy. A piddly world catastrophe. But what happens when two piddly worlds collide? Or three, or four, or five? What about a hundred, a thousand, the totality of minuscule backyard geographical locations aplenty? Voila, unrestrained ignorance. Now there is a destructive force beyond contemplation. Well, an unforced self-destructive consternation anyways. A blame game conglomeration. Goose eggs until the cows come home. Zilch, zero, zip. Home of the piddly world Big Bang, like when Bugs Bunny sticks his finger in old Elmer Fudd’s shotgun and all of that wasted energy just gets blown right back in face shattered predation backfiring for audience amusement. Heck, harness all of that energy for the good – damn, the universe would expand infinitely creative. The choice is always theirs. Too bad about such ACME mentality. Back to the short straw drawing board. Nope, the destructive force of the atomic bomb has absolutely nothing on the destructive forces at play from the releasing of all of the wasted energy of such piddly world projection. Welcome to the synaptic winter. A veritable wight-out.

Alternate dimensions. It is time again in the choosing. Over-ossified pudding containment vessels leading unceremoniously to a minuscule backyard, only to bog down in an horrific piddly world entrapment. A lint trap of the mind if you will, cluttering the societal filter. Scooped out and tossed away, for an uplifting societal elevating efficiency. Heavy gravity those alternate dimensions they are, and so in the absolute choosing. How does, say, five to seven square metres sound? Five to seven square metres with a gravity defying rocket booster contingent beginning in, more than likely the stage 3 Little Bang Introduction, trickling on up to untold Big Bang proportions to escape that thinning atmosphere in a fleshy catchment vessel confinement! And all for and because of the choosing. Something tells me there are going to be a lot of sucking head wounds. Those sucking head wounds of the mental variety. Hard to swallow, so to speak, figuratively and literally. Please, say a prayer for all of the outies! Come to think of it, the innies too. Yes, especially those innies!

What a space-time continuum. Five to seven square metres, up to possible stage twelve rocket booster blast-offs to escape the gravitational pull of such a thinning atmosphere. Yup, there are going to be a lot of big fish stories alright. For years to come one might foreshadow in loused fashion. Those big fish, piddly brains indeed. To match their worlds after all. Such a sickly schooling. Invariably, trawler comes to mind. May the 7 sees be so kind in those calming waters? Either way, all is to scale on the mark it. Shellshocked sardonic sardines systematically swallow swollen swordfish semen surreptitiously. Say that seven times fast for amusements sake. Sucking head wounds galore! “I swear, I swallowed the whole stage eleven rocket booster right down to the launching pad, then let it blast-off in both of my fleshy catchment vessels,” yes, those are the pride ridden braggadocio cries of the 21st century piddly world, big fish stories of a five to seven square metre alternate dimension of their willful choosing.

What a reflection those mirrors. Or as Kurt Vonnegut calls them, leaks. Leaks, it makes perfect sense if one intuitively thinks about it in any sort of depth perception. No, not those big fish depths, those are way too shallow. Well, way, way, way, waylay too shallow to be precise. Cowardly in fact if precision is to be honed in effective leaks of complete blindness. Man, it must be something for those reflective leaks to be so fantastical in self deceptive trappings of excessive encephalitis lethargica terminalis. Tsk-tsk, those big fish.

Not a man amongst them. Not even close. Although, feed the entire lowly, piddly world, minuscule backyard dwelling, over-ossified pudding containment vessel, alphabet cringing muck dwellers tail fin first into a wood chipper and proceed to blast the rotted lot of mega-slurry headlong into an above ground swimming pool, then one is certainly getting closer to such an achievement. Although, all such would really prove, is now they are all just pinko on the outside. Pinko on the outside with an overwhelming stench of fermented jizz.