sweets to irritate your ocular cavities
the first picture in this horrific collection is one that will send you running to your local art gallery in hopes of finding something to put on your wall to counteract the bouts of nausea that are sure to follow initial exposure to this...thing.
the next icon was stolen from a wonderful masterpiece by an excellent surrealist painter who, at one time, went by the name of salvador dali. the title of the original painting is, "persistence of memory." i wouldve put a picture of the original above but unfortunately i was restricted from so doing. however, if anyone is interested in viewing more works by seņor dali, because they find a significant amount of his work to be dalicious dalicacies, they should visit the salvador dali art gallery.
its difficult to separate the physical enjoyment of a steaming cup of tea from that notion of an english civility which the beverage seems to be hotly steamed in. but raspberry tea does a good job--with each tea bag individually sealed in an airtight packet (to ensure your full enjoyment), theres an american sanitizedness and individuality which almost successfully waters down those connotations with which it is otherwise strongly infused. "can you help me...i mean...can i help you?" she asked. "you certainly can," i replied. "what kind of tea would you like?" she asked. i looked across at victoria. "do they serve...raspberry royale?" i asked. "why...i dont know. would you...like me to...help you?" she asked. her breathing so heavy it crushed the premature words before she could fully cut them free of her umbilical cord tongue. "why, yes. i was hoping you could...help me out." i, fully blemished with the rashness of youth, boldly answered. i continued to irritate the as-of-yet untreated medical condition by continuing to scratch in so asking, "do you come here often?" "i try to avoid it, because i never had a reason to come that often...that is...until today." with those words, she applied hastily (yet ever-so-gently, mind you) the mental medication with her tongue. i felt a sensation pass through me with the passing of each second. the itch began to rise to keep pace with the fast moving temperature. i had to get another scratch in, so with my hand i gestured, "why are you here at all?" with the soothing ointment all out, and my itch still burning from within, she got in the final scratch, "sugar brings out the flavor." unfortunately, it was the wrong scratch, for the wrong itch, for the wrong untreated rash, for the wrong unfortunate fetus.
an ha, and a double ha-ha, for you mortal fools who are foolish enough to believeth anything we speaketh. your tiny brains can only hope (along with daily prayer and the sacrifice of your respective selves and/or collective self to us) to just barely begin to comprehend the words which cometh from and are sparsely speckled upon the needle-thin goatskin surfaces which we calleth our tongues. the gods were, and will continue, for a minimum of nine eternities, to, merely toying with your fragile brain(s). your pliant mind(s) have been formally formed in such a manner so that they now will fully obeyeth our every command which will be loosely based on our collective whim. and, if you experience a mental malfunction, you will be damned for ever to hell...i mean...to [heck]!!
teleport my rotting corpse back to the dead zone.
complaints shouldnt be sent to (but should be expected from):
badheadache@hotmail.com