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?