It was greasy and red and almost dead. It slid on the floor from my butt-gape, a little slimy ape with eyes of pure DREAD and fangs and horns. It screamed out its father’s name, and then as swiftly as it had arrived it hopped in the car to drive back again, to Kansas City, where the spawning harp fish live on …
Elon’s baby is a special kind of poop baby.
I was in LABOR for 8 hours, using a tablespoon (as forceps) to pry out the child and let it slip away into the septic tank, in Utah, awaiting final judgment.
ELON SHOT HIS WAD into my BOD, leaving that smear of WIZARD ALE in my pail. It does not grow stale but GROWS inside my bunctous-zone, a bone child born in the forges of creation, so that a nation of bleakness will defeat weakness in the forest home.
The snow around here is nearly “melted” off, but there are still clumps of the chemical mess. As the “snow” on the Olympics “melts”, rolling bands of fog come down, off the hills, into the valleys below. But I’m sure it’s normal and everything is fine.