Streamers 2 and 3

Here’s two more.

Emily smiled dreamily. Her new baby teeth had just arrived at the lustrous pony barn, and they knew her like an anaconda knows the back of a flounder. Under the gross boo boos inflicted by Ingamar the Haggard lay a deeper meaning, known only to those precious few who frequented the deeper, shining levels of Azimuth Canyon. Pumping up her blindly careening animal wind farm, Emily set out towards the seething vistas of her torpid imagination, armed with the errant knowledge that dewy climes awaited her ever-widening cadre of drooling skull gardeners. Flashes of insight besieged her tiny brown temples. We knew she could succeed, but what if the Elderly Brain Settlers discovered her backward plan too early? Or if they ate the cheese?

“Rock the Cash Bar!! Rock the Cash Bar!!” Haughtily festooned barf bag warblers preen precociously at the perfectly shining casino tables. The tumblers tumbled and the safes got safer. Lizard talons clicked and danced across the linoleum landscape. Where were you when the dark levees were breached and the overwhelming doofus flew high overhead, his tiny reptilian face mashed uncomprehendingly against the majestic glass covering of the airborne tax-borne debacle?  Hmmmmmm? Water too Black for you? Cat got your pharynx? Need a private army, Prince Elmo? Gobble up all the cheese, spin monsters, because your day of record breaking is at hand. Hunker down in those shoes, Tim-may, you retrograde book baiter. Shama llama ding dong day.

Shuffling shampoo shooters inclined gracefully towards digital perfidy. Oh yeah. We only have to fear what is near, you mincing vagabond doily sniffer. Gobble up what you can, while you can, because we’re on top of you. Ooofah. You think you’re so big and scaly, you dank, dark darling you, but in the meantime you’re just another mini-Hoover of the huge holographic mess that’s spreading like a fine phony film across the Memphis membranes of these tiny whiny sausage people. Opus County is blooming like a fragile rose in the distance. Could it be named any differently? I consume, therefore I am obsequious, say again Reverend? We think maybe, therefore it can, just not around here. We’re too busy being told what to rewrite, and too comfy to care.

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The small green baby burped happily at the delicious ham sandwich. Her shiny, pink teeth disintegrated slowly towards the filthy shampoo rack. The bubbly substance smiled back at her menacingly. In the distance, giant cheese tadpoles raised their terrible heads in horror. The women screamed in agony and did their terrible tadpole dance on the rusted roof tops of ’57 Ford Fairlanes. “Woof woof!” said the banana patch children slowly.  Eensy weensy spider folk tried stealthily to tie their tiny napkins inside the bulbous tree house without error. Terrorized children screamed happily at the Saturday morning advertisements.

A dark, winsome wind arose in the Northwest, disturbing the silver butter tray and causing several elderly people to wave at their aching memories and break wind softly in the damp, soothing moonlight. Elmo winced quickly at the thought of his past lives. He unclosed the can of Skippy dog-tuna before him and beheld the tiny machine elves who grinned up at him from their aluminum splendor. The elves’ teeth were like little bitty cheerleader bunnies, mobile basketballs glinting and whirling as they threw each other high into the Midwestern air and then smashed down, face first, onto the soft blue stadium turf, giggling wisely.

“Moo!” went the overfed banker as he devoured another tasty, screaming child. “No healthcare for YOU, you rancid little bug muffin! Eat my stock options, weasel squeeze!” Chickens chirped sadly at the thought of another doggy gone bad bad bad, while Magma hysterically ran through the ghetto, waving her tired toupee vigorously. “President La Bamba! Why you such a POOOseee!!” Her beige sombrero began hallucinating maliciously through the dim night fog. Contemplating the ever-widening hole in the floor before her, she leaped courageously into the greasy pudding, swallowing it whole. Mental torment awaited her as she realized her faith had been sanitized by strangers once too often and way too carelessly. Beach sand sifted through the crack in her jeans and she wept, quietly, when she realized that’s all they were going to pay her, in the end. “Back to the chalk line, dimple puck!” yelled her boss, and then she died. Alone. In a filthy Wal-Mart bathroom.

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Streamer 1

This, for some reason, was posted and then disappeared.

So who are you?  I mean, really?  When you stare into that zit-splattered bathroom mirror, who is that tiny being staring back at you in silent anguish? Are you your mother? Your father? Are you a special, unique individual or merely a tired amalgamation of genetic material, pre-assembled and punk-plopped upon planet Earth to replicate the mistakes of your pompous and porous elders?  Or maybe you’re here to MAKE UP for their mistakes. Oh yah! Maybe you’re the bonus they get, the extra chance to make everything OK again through you, their unwilling spawn. If you do well, they look good. Ole. Hot spit. Not so hotso, eh muchacha? Thought you were the only potato chip in the bag, but you’re really just another tasty but fattening piece of greasy junk food. Just another cliff-diver hurtling towards the bottom with a cell phone and a Game Boy and a Wii clutched in your French-tipped fingers and your emo pants down around your boxers. Hee hee!!  Gigglin’ and Googlin’ your way to happy oblivion, my precious widdle sweepy darlin’s. You’ll never see the short bus that hits ya, because you’re all stumbling the wrong way, and your iPod is plugged so deep into your fuzzy noggins you won’t hear anything except the homogenized corporate diarrhea music the Apple sells you until the bumper splat and then it’s too late. Yum. Entertainment for a prophet. Keepin’ the young’ns mesmerized while pickin’ their overworked Daddy’s pocket. Brainwash the plantation denizens into building and policing their own prison. Train ‘em to go to Home Depot to learn how to build a sturdier and more attractive cage so when they die the next batch will have to pay the banks more money to “live” there. Oo and ah. Serial servitude. Generational wage slavery. Social Darwinism for the New American Plantation. Ezekiel turns quickly in his grave and slaps Pontius Pilate on the back, shrieking “We’ll probably fool them all NEXT time, too!!”  Amen.