Pop


Goes the weasel…culture…as in, would I be considered a French braggart if I ate Greek yogurt? It seems as if this factoid might hold some sort of weight, but odds the water’s marred and my American sensibilities tells me Jane should put that Oikos in a tube. It is incredibly easy for me to throw in a grocer’s product considering at my banana ripe age of twenty-two, I just overshot a Blackjack, and I have been throwing grocery freight for almost five-years now. A half- decade is pittance in the Grand Master’s scheme, especially considering that even my timely relation to Leonardo is a modicum in comparison to a vengeful Yahweh or a merciful Vishnu. I am considered a Jack-of-all-trades, yet few remember that without his Jill, Jack was a master of none such as I. Only recently do I feel as if I’ve found my path and it sure is beaten.

Everyone’s path is beaten nowadays though. I haven’t seen a soul that hasn’t been lost in almost two decades now. We’re a people with a land, but without a purpose. We Occupy Wal*Street, yet we squabble about Bert and Ernie’s relations like a confused Thomas Jane…we’re turning tricks just to survive. One day we’ll introspect our own radioactive dust and wonder where that one cosmic girl went. She could have used her vicissitude of invisibility and flown away, but the questions is: Will we follow her into the clouds? In response to this conundrum a man with an apple for a face once told me, “…” He didn’t tell me anything; he has an apple for a face. Regardless, Magritte disseminated that we are all the sons and daughters of men and women, and from this I gathered that it does not matter if Ernest and Bertram share a bath as long as the rubber ducky remains objective it’ll all pan out.

I haven’t run her by Ducky because Molly’s distracting, but nevertheless I hope that I’ve found my Jane, because I’m tired of being Jack without a box. I don’t care if my path is rough, or even. If I Tumbl into a rock or brilliant piece of art all that matters is that, like the Flash, Jane is my lightning rod…my Iris, my Linda. The Zen Master would be proud like a Zune that actually works better than an iPod. I’d segue into an Izod advertence or an even more appropriate General Zod reference, yet General Lane doesn’t like Colonel Mustard courting a Pulitzer prize-winning Miss Lane, so my innuendo would be moot at best. The Planet may be daily, but the fact is the days of the seven only come weekly like Max Mercury’s “Seven Seas of Rhye.”

It was just yesterday I saw the Oroweat vender stock his bread beside some Greek Yogurt, and at that precise moment time slowed as he slipped and StumbledUpon M. Night’s breakable. All I heard was a sonance and in that moment, in that infinite amount of seconds I thought…I thought about this actually, and then I heard the…Pop.

Goes the weasel…culture…as in, would I be considered a French braggart if I ate Greek yogurt?

Pop


Goes the weasel…culture…as in, would I be considered a French braggart if I ate Greek yogurt? It seems as if this factoid might hold some sort of weight, but odds the water’s marred and my American sensibilities tells me Jane should put that Oikos in a tube. It is incredibly easy for me to throw in a grocer’s product considering at my banana ripe age of twenty-two, I just overshot a Blackjack, and I have been throwing grocery freight for almost five-years now. A half- decade is pittance in the Grand Master’s scheme, especially considering that even my timely relation to Leonardo is a modicum in comparison to a vengeful Yahweh or a merciful Vishnu. I am considered a Jack-of-all-trades, yet few remember that without his Jill, Jack was a master of none such as I. Only recently do I feel as if I’ve found my path and it sure is beaten.

Everyone’s path is beaten nowadays though. I haven’t seen a soul that hasn’t been lost in almost two decades now. We’re a people with a land, but without a purpose. We Occupy Wal*Street, yet we squabble about Bert and Ernie’s relations like a confused Thomas Jane…we’re turning tricks just to survive. One day we’ll introspect our own radioactive dust and wonder where that one cosmic girl went. She could have used her vicissitude of invisibility and flown away, but the questions is: Will we follow her into the clouds? In response to this conundrum a man with an apple for a face once told me, “…” He didn’t tell me anything; he has an apple for a face. Regardless, Magritte disseminated that we are all the sons and daughters of men and women, and from this I gathered that it does not matter if Ernest and Bertram share a bath as long as the rubber ducky remains objective it’ll all pan out.

I haven’t run her by Ducky because Molly’s distracting, but nevertheless I hope that I’ve found my Jane, because I’m tired of being Jack without a box. I don’t care if my path is rough, or even. If I Tumbl into a rock or brilliant piece of art all that matters is that, like the Flash, Jane is my lightning rod…my Iris, my Linda. The Zen Master would be proud like a Zune that actually works better than an iPod. I’d segue into an Izod advertence or an even more appropriate General Zod reference, yet General Lane doesn’t like Colonel Mustard courting a Pulitzer prize-winning Miss Lane, so my innuendo would be moot at best. The Planet may be daily, but the fact is the days of the seven only come weekly like Max Mercury’s “Seven Seas of Rhye.”

It was just yesterday I saw the Oroweat vender stock his bread beside some Greek Yogurt, and at that precise moment time slowed as he slipped and StumbledUpon M. Night’s breakable. All I heard was a sonance and in that moment, in that infinite amount of seconds I thought…I thought about this actually, and then I heard the…Pop.

Goes the weasel…culture…as in, would I be considered a French braggart if I ate Greek yogurt?

Short and sweet. Sweet and concise. Concise and correct.


Twist and turn like an electrified spider…legs outstretched…all eight, count ‘em.  Long and straight dipped in sweet tea for an appetite suited only for chocolate covered frogs and snails.  Grab a Dachshund by the tail and pull.  Ask the badger at the end of the tunnel for a receipt because that Pheasant hasn’t paid his borrow bill in over a month.  His daughter is outside next door sellin’ marmalade to Darth Vader in an effort to pay the bill and reach the dark side.  Pinky would know that side of the moon because the force choke only works on the appendages of an arachnid…hence the sweet legs of the neighbor.  Force choke that bastard because the only badger that befriends a Dachshund is unfortunately…a dead one.

Even at the end of that bright light the white lantern wouldn’t resurrect the badger in an attempt to make Deadman jealous.  The only one worthy enough to pull off a double back flip without a net could counteract that smart mouth.  The fish that fly to the fringe of the galaxy balk at the net, because only they can hitchhike without the guide.  With an iPod jammin’ the intergalactic fish flounder in a rhythmic jingle that leaves star dust frozen in awe at the fringe of a black hole.  With a slight wink a son grabs that black hole and asks his father, “What’s this?”

I wish I drew this.

And, in a cosmic flurry that causes the stars to war within one another, the badger to lay to rest, the Dachshund to jam to the stolen iPod, and most importantly the Pheasant to finally pay his bill without the death of single spider…and, that my friends…was all in the father’s reply.  Short and sweet.  Sweet and concise.  Concise and correct.