Posted by NL on April 19, 2005 at 13:53:57:
Revelations-- Part 7
The Leapin' Looney O' Loozianna
The Nattering Nocturnal Nabob O' Negativism O' Nebraska
The Hurlin' Halfwit O' Hawaii
The Moanin' Mooney O' Montana
The Towerin' Twit O' Texas (resembling a former President of dim memory)
The Leapin' Lizard O' Latvia
and even A Crummy Desk O' Deal, in Delaware-- all these and more were seen in the skies that night, of all nights in the year, one billion years hence, when Dr. Dick Woe met his apothesis in his rathole of a study. Some said, say, will say, that the all too real woman in his room gave/will give birth to a McCoy .60 Redhead from hell and out it came zooming from her womb and promptly cut Dr. Dick up, real bad, and then it attacked the world. Others say, no, it was a shinning matched set of Perfect Aluminum Teeth swirling like pebbles in a cyclone that macerated Dr. Dick up, real bad, before going on to attack the world. And at this point grief causes me to fetch up on a dumb point, as they say back home. Only think of Max Woe (as an example):
Max Woe, he did shine and twinkle
With that Dorky light O' purity!
But the world was of another mind
And covered him most thoroughly
With thick and viscous slime.
And there have been so very many Woes! Woes of which I have told you nothing, for I don't think you could take it. There was the Woe who said:
"What? That Mystery Object in the crapper?
(Oh please don't try to flush it down!)
That is only her severed head, thick with flies,
only a few feet from where the ravaged body lies..."
And there was the Woe who could not, for the very life of him, count syllables, though he tried! God knows, he tried!
Tramp tramp tramp I go, these comics having ended, to try to search to see, if there is some kinda world beyond the world of one billion years AD. Into the chickweed patch I go, tramp tramp tramp, upon the severed heads the decomposing bodies, of a milion million killing sprees, with the hackles, as though I even knew what a hackle was! rising upon my neck, for that is where they are said to dwell, for the killer is something I sense, and the killer is very near! The killer is, apparently, not yet a denizen of hell... But if I continue to find these dead women, and no comic books appear, I guess I'll have to try to set up shop as a harbinger O' fear, a fake punk psycho messiah, suited to the age. If it all comes crashing a billion years hence, if the Seventh Seal is really sprung, I've got lots of time to dump bodies in the weeds and think of some defense.
(Editor's note: In my opnion, all that weird shit in the night sky was/will be a product of the same hidden laboratory, the same hidden Tesla coil, arcing and sparking with no intent other than to cause me sleepless nights and odd dreams, dreams like shadow plays in Bali, in hot little rooms stinking of human grease, with the darkling forms of numerous gods, moving, ever moving, upon dirty screens of windingsheet, where gism stains can be seen, and where the marks of putrefaction are all too real and all too vivid-- )