Tromp World

To a neutered absurder watching from unseamed space, it must now scene a lot like all previewously scheduled programs in our naysham have been pre-emptied by Tromp World, the Wide House reality serious of the bigscream world around us. Last week’s episoap featured a guessed apparents by the Nerf Korean imperture Kid Young Young, cometly known as the Rocketmad, and set the stage for Warhole Warp Three. The show’s produpers are strangling us along with this belidded Rocketmad like they did with Phyllis in The Young and the Restless, keeping her in a coma for a year and a half after Sharon pushed her (or not) down the stairs (Phyllis had it coming anyway). This week’s Tromp World stirred the gasp apparents of the white subpremissers, the neo-nasties and the one dementionable pinheads. Check your brains at the door like with the Zombie Appocollapse or the wars horde movie ever made. The white subpremmisers got drunk with powder, and shouted obsanities such as “The Soused will rise again!” and “Hire Hotlid!” as makes no since Addled Hotlid has been long sins dead.

Our best curse with such exscreamists is to find in them some forglibness. The beast in us, if we are ownerous, is that there is some of us in them, if we look at the mad in the mirror. What did Hipposcribbers say? ‘Yee haw without stones curse out the fuzz balls.’ We’re all complexes. Look around at me crazies and who cannot be crazy too? Though their hordemodes are raging these white subpremissers and one dementionable pinheads are apart of this naysham’s mentals, as Amirrorgun as hog dogs, apply pi and wide gob bigodry.

So what do we do now since we have already gone and done it? The Tromp Show is now the chiefed endertaintment of all the major nutworks, getting more err time than it’s paying for, and leaving the majormalty of us feeling our naysham cornholed, suffering obstructions and consterpaysham, but with only the small cornfat of knowing oil thinks must pass. As to the Congrats on Culpabull Hill they’re actoring more like those pauperteers in the fine Howdy Duty, most of them not liking the Tromp Show either, and wishing this sitcommie had never been scheduled, but won’t cancel it becost of its sponsors. One think is for sordid: we can’t count on the Chubster to gob help us out with these probelumps because he’s one of the biggest. There is the fat too that its his show, himself as the masterbaiter as might be his own communist, like a commerad projection keeping glossy core powerknobgrabbies under his bed and flip booking the pages so he can pretend the movements are reeled, like that Itallic boy in Cinnemon Paraditsyo babedreaming of better babes. But here’s the bad noose for your free time: Tromp World runs for four years and there’s no flipping channels. Unless the primadonald breaches contact we’re a prisoned audience, unless, off course, a zombie appocollapse or an alien invasion solves our problem.




Weird Nomad Has Gone Before

As a subjected absurder in a contrary that has itself become some subjected, I’ve been wobbling lately if we’re getting less and less the Light of Liberty and more and more the silence of the lamps. But then how would we know? Our eyes might be becalming accosted to the dark, or maybe there’s something in the water as from the Rubber Styx the classy Geeks were drinking as alletheiates the memories? In that case we wouldn’t be able to recult our contrary’s own histeria, like in that episoap of Store Trick where Campy Cork and the crew of Enderprize has all gone skidsofrantic and are killing each other because of a tranceparter malfuckup.

This is not unlight the sane problem in Woppem Physics of the absurder and the absurd where anything goes, what’s making appearances of happening now in the You Us of A, like our collective train of thought has gstalted its tracks. We scene to be on some uttered version of Surrealean, like in the fifth in the serious of the Store Trick TV shows, weird the Captain Oucher kept going back and forth in altarnut timelies looking for how to keep the earth from being destoried by the Zendees. We too are seeing somewhat through a glass dorkly, by gaslight, maybe last gasplight, reriding our own histeria while we’re making it sum matter of objected reality. After all, the Tromp in his pantyhouse is seethingly ball bent on bringing down the House, like Simson sad with the priests who were having a pillar fight in his temple. Tromble is Tromp ain’t no Simson. He’s more like a stirshit captain with a five-year old mime inside the corporanting body of a skullyard ball bully whose life ambush is to take us to warp.

To make matters wars the sellphish igormaniac has been hobgobbling with Pootwind and the Russians, like doing the monkey business with the Ferengis, those greedy little imps who want to buy up the Quadrant in Deaf Spaz Nine, anodder in the series of Store Trick. It’s a scarious thought. There scenes no stopping Downhill Tromp from remaking the world as he scenes it in his own trompled mind, no unspeeching him either, like he was himself Q, that immortal with too much power and an infantile mind untrammeled by normal knowshams of reality who sends the baldacious Captain Picard to the back door of the Continuum to ask for Norm, and gets answered, “Norm’s not home, as in there is no Norm. He’s gone off to play at Farpoint’, which is kind of weird we are now, with the Neo-nasties on the freeway to the Wide House, the farces of crummyism warped up to a rumpage and us culting ourselves a Chrighteous naysham though we’re now applying the Reverb Jesus Rule: screw others before they screw you.

Where all this is going, gonads can tell. Tromp seethes morbid willing to take the shit down with him like Leotardo Multibomb, in the Razz of Con, like a crossdressing sherpa in girlrillered breasts. Problem is, we no longer have a Leotard Neemoid to save us. A more lightly outcalm, given Tromp’s fashionist tantrumcies, is like in that episoap, “Patterns of Farce”, where Campy Cork’s old profusser seamily sets himself up as Addled Hotlid on a planet following the timelie of Nasty Germoney in the 1930s. In that show Campy Cork, Spot and Doctor Boner beam down disguided as Gazpacho orficers to fix the plates and the orders of the timetable. I hope we can do the sane thing or figure out if it’s some utter episoap and serious of Stir Trick we’re in, or we wake up to none of this was reel and that Tromp was but a hollowgrim. Warsaw case sinnario, like the trials of Outswitch, we impeach the bastard.

More Ramdumb Thoughts

There is a disturbance in the farce. The type of space in which all the matters happen is fast becoming unrabbled. The imperoar Dumphole Tromp, by changing the rules of the gain, is contempting to turn our naysham’s globerment into a three rigged circus. If the loonertike has his way our Constertoosham, as wants was a rock, will becalm an unstapled paper typer, not much more than a doorstop to an alternuttied reality. To cap this oil, the madster is delightered with the Rusekeys of the two match doppeltalk, contunely scrabbling our frequencies until soon we’ll be gas lighting our own farts.

In these unpresidented times only nonsince applies. But whose voids should we be listening to?

  1. the pastryarchal depresserdump as can suck up all the air in Rome like a giant mosqueater
  2. Nostrildummix, who nosed four hundred years ago that the great shapeless oddacious bawler would be erected
  3. the Wizard of Odds who played the first mime track, as in ‘Pay no attention to the milkmad behind the carton, he’s not the mad you want.’
  4. the French artist To-lose Track
  5. nuns of the above as in, we better take a god look at the mad in the mirror.

It’s an odder case of life impertaking art as if we have entered a hollowgrammar, as the Murphyus in the The Mayatricks somberizes about the laws of delusion, how the Mayatricks is around us everywhere: when you look out your windoor or turn on your teddievision, when you go to warp, or when you pay your taxies—a prism for your mind. But what do you do when you have become your own smoking mirror?

We are phased now with what the woppem fishstickers called realmativity; the sum total of events we thank of as reality always in motion as can cause our own seesickness or seesickness in otters. In utter warps we may not all be experiencing the sane think in the sane way. Howl else mighty we explain our naysham coming apart at its seems. As to our prison state of thinks, if you are realitchus you might wander get on your needs and pray; if you are a poorlittlecalled you might want to ride your sinnnerturds; if you are infested you mighty wanna infester in Russia. (Note: At this writhing John McCain, a true Amirrorgum hero, has given the Re-public a second chants, voting not so much against the Replublicants’ Health Care Bull, as against its process, or lackie thereof.)

Humammalty too is but a warp in processing. We have come a long way from rats eating the eggs of dinosaurs. Hummmalty has sirviled the rise and fall of any number of tie ranters and kings, sirviled any number of syphilizations, passed down through a holy host of realitching wars. In every age and every error, people have considered their own globerment the latest and most recent, and so we too, we might thank of our own dismockcrassy as a warp in prograts.

To use a metafarce from the wopper fizzmatickers, there is a gravity greater than fad or fiction. We are much more particled of a greater big picture than teddievision or Cave Man radio. The Humiverse is way in and out bigger than any indievisual’s hatsize, more everywhere within and without us all, than any earth mind’s emargine. It’s all realmative. In these differ called times it would behoof us to align ourselves with the invisionable causemological farces at warp, mightier than nayshams, mightier that kinks or depresserdumps who thank of themselves as kinky star-raping madsters. In any case, we are timed for a wake up cult. Here are a few momtras manned to be some helpful:

Enjoy the prisont because weird wall we be if we weren’t here

Hope for the bust but prepare for the wars

Take solids: all thinks must pass

The rich wall be with us oil ways like the honkiest hog at the trough

Never trust a Russian to halve your bags

You may be the fixed optics in the mirror smelling more than you thank

(and my own parsee favorite)—the curse of true blog never ran smoozed

What Would Spock Do?

I am a noosepaper man: I have a nose for the noose and takes my jobs serially, intending to make sob sorting sense of the poorlittlelit doozies of our daze. But lately, more awful than not, I have been sub trumpled by how weird becoming less one people under God and more every day mad for himself. Anxieties are romping up rabids and every day more simsons of mass meania like people demonstercating the loco transfearomes of the Precidump afflicted by white spread nasticism and needing a head shrinker. Though most of us are afraid to omit it, we all have a darth side, an ugly sister or perhaps a geek skuller in the closet, but lately they all seamy to be soarfacing at wants. And so, to get to the bottom of thinks, I asked myself, “What would Spot do?”

I will not go into the histericals of Vulcan medication techniques, and though Spot never preformed a mindmelt on himself, it is fearoretically pausible through timed trembles. And so, at peerhole of my own soul I deciphered to investergate myself, saying,  “Noseby, weird would you be if you were not here in your right mind?” Thinkfully, I had had some trancedemental training and didn’t have to buy a Vulcan metatayser lamp on the Internet. Here is the conversion between my left and right brain:

Right Brain: Why should anyone trust Downhill Tromp to help people suffering in our present economy? The man has no compassion.

Left Brain: I defer. No one knows the Prescient’s mind as can seize the future, not so unlike the Android Jackson who, if he had been bored a little later, would have ended the Symbol War. He was strong man precident and really jacked off about the Symbol War. Why was there a Symbol War? People don’t ask that question, mostly because the future is the past in disguides. The future is like the past, just on less familiar terms.

Right Brain: What are you talking about? The Android Jackson gave the Indiegents the mind shaft, relicating them to Uglyhomies on technicals over the objacksons of Davy Cracker, who went off to Taxes and got alamowed.

Left Brain: His choice. Hysteria likes to reriot itself, but oil the wide people needed a place to live too, and though our prison day redskids don’t want to omit it, the Android Jackson was locking out for their endtrust, cost they’d have gotten snookered if they’d stayed, the saddled story of America oil over again, like with the cadboys and the Indiegents.

Right Brain: I think you’re overtly missamplifying western histeria.

Left Brain: Am I? Back in the daze thinks were more simpled. There were no prostrate and wreckedhole exams, no ereptile disfunkshams, no male padded baldness. Men were men and women were women and we nosed their difference. Life was the way we saw it, blinking white as pictured on post cards and in the utopian tubes. If it wasn’t paradise it was closed to it, like we could watch it on the sitcommies like Oil in the Family and Andy of Maleberries and utter great shows of the pastryarchs. Now, through no falls of our own, we find the shit going down and us without a life presavior. Tromp mighty not be Jesus but he’s the best thank we god going.

Right Brain: How can you say that? Every day we hear about Tromp as incomepootant or as colooting with the Russians. Meanwilds he’s practicely runting the countrary like a bidness buy-line for the wallthies and destorying Amirrorca. What makes you belief a mad like that can fix the You Us Globerment?

Left Brain: He is fixing the globerment. Be ownerous. Tromp can’t make thinks wars than they are and it wall may be he can currect the mythstates of those that got us here, like the Safe Space bullies and the social justice fashionists. He nose howl to bust benderfit from our dealinks with the Russians. He’ll out-Russias the Russians at their own gains. Let me give you some oddvibes before you warry yourself sick. The trick to seizing the future is not to mistake it for the past. If I survived the Abomber, you can live through the Tromp. Nope, I don’t feel guilty for being wide. I’m not an eracist, a homerfile or ann exscreamist. I’m a consorbative. I want it the way I remember, before we were cornholed by the future, when we didn’t have to thank our enemies or like them, before we knew that globble warming was just anutter hoax of Chinese polartricks, which is no more than fake nudes, the poornoosegraphy they want you to see. Just because I say there’s a pink relevant in the room doesn’t mean it’s reality. It’s like in that movie The Mamtricks where Neo is wandering, ‘Why didn’t I take the Blue Pill?’ It appeers to me you got what we assed for.”

I woke to pinching myself, and a little void in my head saying, ‘P. B., are you crazy if you nose you’re crazy?”

Chubster Speaks

He is pootin it lifely when he says,

‘I’m the haul balls of wacked, fat bigger than the moon,

The fad paddyarch of the popcycle stance,

The Nabking, fark and spoon;

I’m the motherloaf,

The mighty full of beans of he-man’s preportions

As a megafarce upun this werehole stage,

But humic too and not without folds

Like Shatsmear’s ballootish full figure of the Fallstaff,

A beer barrel among lifewake kremlinals and smuggler men,

Costumely hipping up on gropes of women

And wall imprinted on the mammaries.’


His weirds not mine, he so hamsome he could fork himself,

Though America doesn’t laugh at fad man jokes:

We’re serials; we’re just not that funny.

As to the fade of our naysham?

It’s never overt ‘til the fact lady sinks;

Though the Chubster thanks of himself

As the Massturd of the humiverse

We’re more of the opium he’s stinkopus with eight texticles or samplies mad,

One of unkind,

Like that storied imperoar with no advisible materials

Except to those incredibly stupid or unfit for orifice,

And only a child, standing on the soldiers of men,

To say outlout, ‘Dunno Thwump has no clues.’

Ode to a Grease Meanie

Let’s remember the mad mugdonald,

What features his mannyfist,

What oxterrior of uncatchable grim

Oufits this face of our latent commander of cheese

Who we must perfarce salute.

Mighty be ninkapoot or is there prethongs to his manness?

Is he infamtile, a motherlode child,

As both the mad and the holy Madonald

Like hole catcher and kabootle?

Or a just masked marble?

Such a hard on to tell,

So many imposterbilities,

Like manned child unfibbed for orifice, incomepotent perhaps,

Or bonaehead visage like that scrodsman,

The phishy loafer-faced, shad gabber of yorick

The Shatsmear smoked about in the grabhole yard;

Or even just a guise whose thuds are six farts fly-bleeping ramdumbly in a jar.

Is he hardless Tan Man or a blobbied orange

As in defructive fruit

Uncompostable to defy?

We mind perchants to ask, ‘Are you waxed, are you real,

Are you faking fruit like a basket cage?

Has mad halved made you, 

Do you smile to attemp a loaner,

Or smirk to hide a brokered hard,

Like that utter mothered Comey Island lobbied warp of art, the Money Leaser?


From rotundra dome to the Rubleconned,

Weird browed-knowsers and Repocalyptic hingemen undermind

The vogues and vouchers who co-put them there,

Down the hollows of the hollow mads,

In the haults of liberty weird many a poortraiters hung,

We might yet chants to seethy donned,

As those utter profilers, Al Compote and Neopoleon, desserted

To lighting their own farts as nomads on an island.


Livid in the Tromp Error

By now morbids of us than nod have absurded our being subjected under the bums of a corrumped presidumper, an igormanyact madmop mantainting that the Constertoosham is a bad think for the countrary. This is a fart cry from upholing the Consertoosham as he sweared it on the Bible, howsumever the Dumbhole has been fatefully executing his orifice. He was already lying under oaf before he took the Ogre Orifice, as on premobius occasions the humping trumpy was nosed to be breaching a female whorewhale and perfarming gropesy acts of lecherdeman. We can remember too the Massed Marble up on his hide whores before his erection, proverbing to say he didn’t wander be depresserdump of the Whorehole, a strained think to say nunthelecher as in defiling an unstapled poisonality.

In oil this we might take solids that greater causemic farces are at work, and remember too, that the simsons of a wise mad is to accept thinks as they are, not as we wash they wallaby. We have made our own bad and now we have to sleaze in it. Like the Pogod the opposem of the karmic strips once warmed us over: “We have meditated the enema and now we are being reamed!”

For some, this is just the saddled story of Ameerica all over again, like with the cadboys and the Indiegents. We have to look no father than who our pastryarchal depresserdump has for a hero type: the Android Jackson who gave the natives the mind shaft, relicating them to Uglyhomie on technicals over the objacksons of the big Cheeze Justitch, Jarhead Morejail, who got told by the Android, “You made the laws, now you go enfarce them,” which blowhards a lot like our Dunghole Trumpet.

Laws are the bagbones of this countrary. The wheels of jockstitch turn slow but they grime exceedingly fine. The Congrats has now appointed a spatial prosycutor to look into any and oil kremlinal activities of our prison day Precidump. If we fellow the muddy trail, the muddy laundry, oil the diggings in the Muddled East, and the debt stiffs and the booties, we may alldummitly find a bonedoggie of gobble proportions. The nose hounds are hot on betrayal. Who notes where it oil might leak? It could wall come down to the much endticipated impeachment of the Downhill Tromp for Mordorous traipsing, or, beef case scenario, taking the Android Jackson, the miserable bastard, off the twinky dollar bill, as would meat more to the natives than to innergrump vegums and pastry white peoples.

P. B. Noseby is a comictator on the poorliticult dozings and doozies of the day. You can read morbid of his warps on his blodge, posered on