Jamal and the Whisper Fountain

"You want fries with that?"

Jamal turned to the man seated next to him, his hands in his lap, calmly stroking a box of Topps 88's.  His sad mountainous face was dusted in a light Cheeto glaze and he smelled of showerless days and sleepless Seattles.  The bus was double plus crowded, and the usual amount of crazies were dangling from the up-top hand rails like city-born jellies, waiting to crystalize in transit to the mall or the cell phone store.

"No thanks, I'm straight,"  Jamal responded politely.  It obviously hadn't occurred to the gentleman offering potato shards, but he was in fact on a bus and probably incapable of making or selling fry daddies or any of the other things he had offered to the people on the bus.

"Well, this is my stop," Jamal said, standing up to leave.

"You goin' to Whisper Fountain?" asked the Cheeto muncher, with a bit of Lance Bass in his throat.

Jamal debated answering him, but decided that his words would be meaningless and therefore should be saved for more deserving and more real human examples.  He quietly left, while the strange and stinky bus orphan continued to rattle off word mixers and verb particulates about the profound and apparently inescapable Whisper Mountain.

After stepping off the bus and into a small puddle of what might have been a street bird, Jamal decided he needed a new pair of foot leathers and possibly a mouth splash or too.  He headed towards the mall, knowing that they were the only ones in town known for their rapid yet tastefully pleasant mouth splashing and foot leathering.  He clutched his dollar sack excitedly and pranced the fuck on.

At the mall, babes and ugly ducks were wondering about, drooling over the newest hotnesses.  Children were everywhere, and Jamal was way not pleased.  Waves of sticky carmel hands and taffy legs shoved past him, each one followed by a galloping log-pile of shitty parent or barely legal guardian.  He ducked into the nearest mall alley to find some respite.

"Man, I don't even know what respite means -" his words stopped.  There, in the darkest of mall ally corner hideouts, was a disturbingly quiet and anguished looking fountain.  Suddenly all was silent.  Stillness and anti-calamity became Jamal's new brain.

The water, splooshing out from the scratchy tin urethra nozzles, was without sound.  The tinkles and splashes and other wet audio were no where.  Jamal's ears waited impatiently, getting hungrier and hungrier for noise burgers.  Nothing.  Nope.

Jamal started to panic.  Now, in the coldest time of mall seasons, mall winter, he sat alone in a withered and eerily silent alley.

A figure approached him, but then he realized he was just tripping the fuck out, and started trying to scream.  Nothing came out.  He had no more word powers.  His brain wasn't even making a sound.  He even tried to let out a warm ass warbler, but it turned out to be a hollow wind of blankness.  His panic was potent and edible by now, and his wishes of mouth delights and foot treats seemed further away than his biological parents.  His sadness hit him like a third grader, punching his stomach then kicking him in the dick.  With cleats.

Jamal's brain suddenly and all kinds of at once knew where he was, and with one final energy blaster he let out a faint and breathy "whisper fountain..."



-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -


Jamal opened his eyes, alert and refreshed from his dream-coated whisper nap and brushed the crumbs from his lap.  His eyes were sticky and sleep tossled, his hair a nest for creatures that deal in dreams.  He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, finally releasing a slow and sweat-soaked dustfart into the lower stratus of his surroundings.

He turned to the gentleman sitting next to him and asked, "you want fries with that?"

Hermione's racist porch swing.

Ungh....yeuh.

i'm in an ac slater pose, pickin like a babys nose.

drop draws in public, stinkin like the latest hoes...

..plus i plate the 'go's

escar that is, and i park fat kids

in the dark, ass is

what the nark smashis.

blashphemy...

i pass three weed seeds to dapheny.

and she laughs at me, and i probabalee

dropped....balls like an atheleete.

when mesh shorts rub all

on my balls its truble

and i'm on the double

givin bulls their bubbles.

"And that was quick dick of Hermiones new album "blast off into hell, bastards."

which, as all the muggle borns know, is a big fuck you to egyptians everywhere.

She finds herself fucking a pig in the middle of one of her better tracks, i know

because it made my sudden vomit attack taste of scraps and magic spiders.

Better suited for pointy nipples, this album climbs up everyone's shirt and

fucking laughs in their face. Not laughter like haha but laughter like silk gloves

dipped in molten lava. END"

shorTs seTs

"I have crumbs on my new sets....."

Koach Bonbays pitiful anger ship was blasting it's way through his jaunty demeanor.

"These sets were to last me half a moon. The not men were to bat and flail their eye sticks gingerly as i passed in the great hall!" No one was fooled by his anger. Shorts sets kame in packs of several, and alwwways did the wofolk stare. Well, more like get doughy.

Koach Bonbay was always at the top. Always. Top of stairs, tops trading cards, top ic of sex hunts. It was the sets. What with the flagrant layering and thoughsand island dressing, it's no wonder he killed himself. If you could go back to Latter day, you'd see Koach in all his cream filled shavings. Kream for the wolady's and filled shavings for the kids.

Koach loved the kids. So did his sets. The one today went to this tune::: Maroon, then Drunked grey under, and Office burlap hiding beneath.

Then Goldberg showed up in the middle of the twilight, naked as so many docile animals, kissing the seeds that Jerald had sewn on his bed seconds before. Everyone flew into a hysterical fit of hope as Goldberg's stomach flew out of the back of his head.

He had smooched on the seeds that came from thoughts of sigourney weaver.

Delicious Christopher

Exactly five minutes after I stopped chuckle chortling I noticed the red shoes on the floor next to the peppermint cradle.  These shoes were fierce, but I was determined to Google them.  I checked, and surely saw the surly straw of reality slap my blister-dicked wheelbarrow of a brain.

It turns out these shoes were once owned by the magnificent Delicious Christopher.  His passion for red shoes was almost as demanding as his sense of inflammatory nonsense and brickle fits.  Can you wake me when this dream life is gone?  I know I'll stagger out of here all dead and expired, but I really have to try on these shoes.  I have to know what ghosts feel like, wrapping their transluscent windjammers all around my walkabout fingers.  I have to feel the energy of a thousand years.

I have to know what Christopher Delicious knew.

I have to triumph, and I have to turn my ashy whittle swizzle haunches into melonaise and brandy water.  I must be victorious.  I must be mustard.

I must be my own red shoes.


I'm totally dead.  I knew it.

ALL the girls are on it. damn.

And this is the gaping history of the open sore cult known as Swag.

There were once three swags, all layered and, frankly, quite guilty.

First of which held the monicker "Stable boy Swag" - also known as "The veluptuous mr. Editor". Currently the swag brought about by said horse crower is known as "Posture". All the mountains and tree's came at the same time. The mixture of their majestic dose of "Kum magic" fell on one small chap lad of a boy, crowning him "Stable boy swag". He is the owner of band-aids.

The second and third swags are broken and gormless. Somethymes they fall down holes just to think they are super body raping the holes. sickness. The second squall is called as such: "THIZ n HONK swag" which later became "eau le doet....ay!" Obviously his rambuncious asshole nature came from the DUMPS of a small tribe of kools. ("tribe" became "pack" in the year 20sticks.)

The third, and by far the most well pressed, is the "Pretty boy swag". Now this grotesque, burlesque, toyota mating, pumpboy dialing, mesh souled, flame detailed guitar was not created by not purpose. In 2000, 504 boyz and eddy murphy's donkey lover broke into the lab of 7 maestro's with the prank-tentious purpose of creating someone to blow. After adding an abundant amount of tears, rainbow skeletons, and horny fancy ducks to their graduated cylinders, they rubbed. And they waited. Then mystikal let out a cry: "Beat me! o my god beat me with everything!!!!" Everyone started crying as "Pretty boy swag" emerged from breath homes in the room, as tall as the tallest belch, and wider than anyone could've urethrasized.

Thats when all fuckin heck broke loose...all over the fucking floor.

banging corn betty!!

several years back, i met a shorty stack, hustlin waffle corn hats, for five bucks a pack or maybe it was 7, i am not really sure, but i know she earned it the hard way(kinda like that one part in back to the future, when marty wakes up on the 47th floor). she worked a out of lavender cream shack and told me to spit on it (that was her hello).

every tuesday night she hosted polynesian grain dancing massacres, its free for the first twenty minutes than nine cents a minute after. it was a cross between yoga, martial arts, a car wash, kevin spacey's upper lip, twenty degrees north by northwest, a pair of broken hearts, wrinkle pies, and episode 126 of COPS.

i picked the daily double and we slipped into the flashier side of eternity. i was mesmerized by the way she wagged her starship pastries and her light saber hatchet. she looked at me and said, "roads? where we're going, tropic psychos will bboy yo yo fists in a cylindrical fashion. Santa will probably jump start your soul in the wrong direction and make you wish you were marlon brando. the bare necessities are that you and i will join as one and bring devil vision back from the dominican, carpal tunnel won't stand a chance, table tops will dance on you and there wont be left overs."

and then, nothing..... thats all i remember from banging corn betty.

  

The fire inside of me.

So all of these guys came up to me and said, "Hey.  We're all these guys, and we're coming up to you to say things.  Let it be known that invisible diagrams have proven gravel sacks to weigh five times more than straw purses."  I knew at once that their words were bullshit.  I neither understood nor respected them, and they immediately puked whisper emergencies into each other's ears.  One of them referenced a Bieber song and let out a slow but moist rump blast.

The fat one said, "Huddle together brothers, so that we may create a vortex of calamity, and elixir if you will.  A thought elixir-"  He paused, obviously defecating in his own pants.  A fortnight ago I would've appreciated this kind display of comfort and obvious love for Blossom (the venue, not the television series), but today I thought to myself, "This is simply disgusting.  Grow the fuck up."

I climbed into my bed and swore off halogen power and noon naps for the last time.  Preschool hadn't prepared me for the harsh realities of Kindergarten.  My teacher was a demon, squirting out her own death yell lotions and clawing at our brains with talks of letters and numbers.  Neither of those things sounded appealing or real to me.  Neither one of my parents had told me about the alphabet.  Things are what they are.

A toaster is a toaster, and thats all.  Why spell it out when you can say it so easily?

saturday at club poppinshit

Have you ever been there? The zone TWIXT the ultraviolet "wham" juice out of whats her names VAG and the motosickletay seat i been wheelin on?

hahahaha yea man droppin wheels and poppin peels on whats her names.

whats her names is such a blow. no, shes a dutchess ho. no, damnit. uuuughhhh her wham juice is still tilting my cap. I can't even find out how all these babies came to be in my possession. probably from blowing them, the babies. thats how babies cum right? has to be, their dicks are way to big for whats her faces.

well back to me gloating about wham juice, when i le trouved on me seat, i checked it. you know, checked it for......(gama radiation) (sad face) (sunglasses face).

Apres the tests, i found that "wham" only describes the viscosity of the juice. O and juice is probably the wrong word, its more like buttery ketchup water. Yea way less like the delicious juice you were picturing, and more like fucking puke butter that flips tops and blows babies.

she must be fucking destroyed. the babie blowing bandit, butt fucks mcamstel light.

Get a rope, some very thin silk, and rev that shit- its wheelly poppin time.

I'm only going to say gravy one more time.

"Pizzas want to be me.  Charts want to style me.  Every day is a new wash basin, complete with tired ancient rhetoric, plasma in and out of all the master socks," he murmured, his hands to his side and his feet still wet with the stench of salt pork.  His rendition of the president's address was lacking, and the class was growing hungry.

"Chortle, have you ever even been to a Kentucky Fried Chicken before?"  coughed Starwasp, a nearby fat lump.

Chortle had never been to Kentucky Fried Chicken before, and he found himself taken aback by the mountains of heap-fleshed cattle persons standing there, leering towards other-wordly potato smells and irregular chicken cracklers.  There were little pot-bellied nugget toddlers, wearing wheeler shoes and Jnco gravy protectors.  There were sad teen monsters, smoking cigarettes through Pepsi goggles, running there teeth along the chatter fluid of green beans.

Every person in the joint was a captain or a handbag.  Miles away, the real Captain Handbag lurked, silently stroking his goldenrod Shag shirt.  The snowflakes had fallen for the last time.

"Sixteen more buckets of gr-" he stopped, remembering his promise to only say gravy one more time.  "Oh shit."

chip wyllis will not...

1. wrap himself in a flour tortilla (unless there is whole wheat bio-mechanics with orange puppies).

2. transmit morris code through a toaster oven about his first wheeling sex crisis, with a toaster oven (unless its Monday, Thursday or if its really really foggy out).

3. campaign for class clown tower's naked and a half marathon (unless Jupiter kicks Saturn in the balls).

4. pull silly jerk from a 3 pack of bio-degradable taint cloths (unless patty cake is truly the real McCoy).

5. smuggle tulips in his possum sack, 6 hours a day for the next motorcycle week (unless peanut butter stops calling for child support).

6. dumpster dive for non bio-degradable taint cloths (unless the fabric is clean enough to wash up the future).

7. drive a Mario speed wagon into a waffling pile of gaga (unless penguins are in heat and the lawn mower's speed limit is close to 7:30pm).

8. way too nasty to talk about (let's just say i found away to a promise of jelly fish).

book review circa grade 3. public school promises BJ's

"oooo this makes it feel real fast! o god hahahahaaha so fast!

you know when your auto wheeler is flipping and many terrible things are coming so soon? o it drenches me in stability.

in the sitch above, keep your posture about your....tai food?!. the straighter your "ness:P" the more you will break in *fiery devil. <------+(*)(*) this refers to hottness of food ..

tippy toes also makes for safety. doing tippy toes not only releases sex hormones in your brain, but also makes you a, like, raptor, or maybe like, some type of other.... stanky legged creature."

This was a snippet from Richard B.F. Snugglehurst's new "taint" biography. His imagery opens me and his flagrant smell penetrates my vulnerable GUTS!!!! Thats how he beds you. The way he uses the boring book symbols. It fucks me. o wait. CAPITAL 1_333 7292_*

Sorry, mid-article snack attack. Dick makes good points in the taint. I mean usually tainty points hurt, but when they are pioneered by a dick and a BF, well, they feel like the best DQ blizzard on the bottom of your ass rip. Best believe, buddah's job in our creation was to rip open a portal in all of us, the portal for solids. Solids = joy, nirvana, sass, and dress-up parties right? WELP, just buy the book. I was promised a BJ from sloan for every book sold and destroyed.

help me.

save me. BJ.

Salisbury Pie and Jan McGregor

Dear readers,

I can't seem to find myself.  Several weeks ago it came to my attention.  I'm including a recipe for a delicious summer pie that can feed about eight people.  It's a cured beef pie, so plan ahead!  Curing time is usually an entire season of Friends.

You'll have to excuse my frankness, but my mirrors have all been plasticized and are working as coal minors in a valerian exhibition.  I must find a clever concealer!

Jan Mcgregor








I found this recipe in my hotel sock drawer, Enjoy!


Salisbury Pie:



For the crust:

-2 lbs flour salts
-3 Salisbury eggs (stir the whites, discard the creme)
-1 pinch riser powders
-2 TSP coconut menthol
-salt, pepper

• Combine all ingredients in a small lavender music box.  Ambiance is key.  Stir until noon, repeat for a full episode of the Wonder Years.  Don't forget to bake it, probably in an oven.  Bake partially at 350 for 8 minutes.
• Extra stirring is key!  Don't let the recipe fool you!

For the filling:

-12 oz salisbury, extra long grain (trim the fat, but save it for marble skewers)
-1/2 cup brown gravy (don't use Uncle Schuappe's Best brand, it's awful and lumpy)
-2 TSP Hydrogen coin
-Some potatoes
-A few yards of carrot rope
-1/2 TBS whiskey mints

• Toss most of the ingredients (leave the hydrogen coin for last) wildly into a small trashcan (heritage adds cooking time, so pay attention!).
• Fill pie to brim, cover and bake at 350 for 14 minutes or until golden Salisbury.
• Remove from oven, let cool for 2 hours.
• Re-bake at 450 for 2 minutes.  Quickly remove pie from the oven, while crackling the hydrogen coin onto the pie crust with light guardian force.  Let cool for weeks.

Serve with Vincent martini's and quail butter.

cocktails with dirty five cakes!!

i once met this gentle giant named dirty.... five cakes.

we crossed paths at bar in a small town outside of santa monica or somewhere in the Philippines, but anyway it felt like south jersey sometime in 79 (ill confirm next week).

he was an ant farmer who invented fargo mayo (yes... fargo mayo), he had been a peeper for centuries and was about to retire. he was swift but with nervous hands. like a swiveling jackhammer, he was, and too sharp for his own good.

he was dancing with jack catch and the ferocious five, they were all rippers and lovers (not like kind you find at saturday night cosmic bowling, but the kind you would find picking up trash on the side of the road). not a care in the world and nothing to lose.

he was drinking cake from a four year old coconut chalice, it felt like robbery but it was real.
we caught glares from across the way, and he began to woooo...... wooooooo. i thought he was vomiting but he was cross-pollinating all over the place, and it was enchanting. he made me feel like honey dew (all green and soggy, and half way to good. possibly fair)

three jolly ranchers later, i found myself pushing daisy's in a swiss cheese colored ford pinto. i was bit lost but it all made sense (thats when everything became dangerous). we were being chased by a samurai sailor driving a miniature giraffe with carnage caught in his nose hairs. we speed up and our gypsy began screaming at us binary code.

the samurai chased us through several golden girls episodes. just when i thought we were gonna get swallowed up, he fell into a pool and we found shelter under a cherry tree in the middle of a gravel pit.
we were safe then, he tried to reconstruct me into a communist party, but i had to decline. his romance was magical but couldn't look me in the eyes. i smelled his fargo mayo and his stale cake breath. i don't remember what happened but they left me out in a field of dreams with an extra small compass.

i felt scammed, but i wouldn't have had it any other way. i made it back to that bar to close out my tab and there we was necro-mancing with a bunch of reindeer, he went back to peeping in the worst kind of way. he went back on his word and left with more cake to shotgun.

i saw him again several years later working at an ihop, he looked like an alcoholic ronald mcdonald. he was reckless to boot and still had nothing. but i will never forget the time we had found passion fruit in that ball pit of stone. i will never look at the stars the same and i probably wont ever go swimming.

damn you five cakes.... damn you dirty.          

Leslie's bout with Incest

STEPS TO SUCK(IN)CEST.

the in is silent. step 2- find many potions. potions of clydesdale quality.

step- 3 hundred drops of purest anuz blood. this step is tremendous and honourable.

777- sign language sandwich is given to the.

DUMB- kids on the block. them learn by my hand, the hand of god. the ultimate jock.

JOCK- jockin on them. haters wanna see it when i jock jojock jjjjjjock.

leslie. with his best wishes. wishes to be a genie. he feels each wish like a lite tickle on his cheek or lips at night. the wishes condemn him to so many things. :hell :swimming :open sores, which must be licked by third moon.

back to leslie. there are two jaggged parts to him, his edge (which just wants to get married) and his bone.

many refer to it as the harness, or the orb killer. i know it only as "friend"

this was gone. GOOOONE. (in skrewed voice).

Cranberry, Apple, Kiwi, Melon, Table Dance

"Lucifer!' He shouted, exposing his last Ace to the crowd of gilded duck swatches.  He stood up, backing away from the table. 

"Everyone here is a loser!  I am not a sportsman, and you most certainly are not sports, men.  I can't even begin to think of how terrible you all must really be."  He trampled back to the ladies, hoping they would cheer him up.  

"At least they have juice," he mumbled to himself, "at least they have juice."

................

A few months later he found a Danish lump on his left breast.  Doctors told him to get out and enjoy the last few seasons of his life.  One such scalpel jockey informed him rather impolitely, "The finale is going to be as boring and tasteless as the pilot.  Pray for a spin-off, even though that will undoubtedly be as shitty, if not shittier."

This created many illusions inside of his upper brain deck, and spilled even more juices into his eyes.  Juices. 

"Juices?"

Thinking back to his fortieth anniversary of being alive, he recalled drinking large quantities of health juice.  Flavors:  cranberry, apple, kiwi, and melon.  Ladies were flocking to him, giving him 7 numbers at a time, some 9 if they lived further than he could count.  Their dances were like safety wine, playing delicate casio-tones and radio-notes on his purple and red dancing mouth worm.  

He had sworn before the night began that he'd never reach outward with his grabbers, but the juice and ladies were too much.  He found himself grabbing at anything he could - juice, breasts, more juice, fleshy underthings, brown parts and down parts, silky peaches and mostly juicy sacks of love want.  The ladies should have been thirteen kinds of mad, but the juice had fooled even the smartest of the damsels.

"I can touch everything as long as I have my juice!"  It was clear to him now that he would live forever.  A crackle of thunder rung in his ears as shards of dangerously invisible sex lightening slid from betwixt the closest ladies, promising him that he couldn't be any closer to wrong.  Still he drank on, ignoring the signs, ignoring how to drink politely in a room full of dancing mothers and sisters.

Juice was everywhere.  Cranberry, apple, kiwi, and melon.

skittles exit through yonkers ya racist bastards.

take the word sauce. it works cause it tastes real good saying out of your gullet. try it. go to a bed and breakfast and ask them to fuck you with sauze. o my trust they will oblige. aren't they openly larsonous? well at this d&d meeting i will swuash whatever was happening with head worlock and fucking SNAAAAPPEE!!!!!!!!!! DOOOOOOOON"T!!!!!!! O FUCK O MY GOD WE"RE ALL WHORESSSSSSSSS!!!!!