Livid in the Tromp Error

The You Us of A has chained much since Downhill Tromp’s erection just two shortsheeted years ago: with a Republicant tax plan that lines the pockets of the wallthies at the expanse of the poor; a forehead policy that tarroughs up our allies while codpiecing with our enemies; and a Trumple Bam on Mooselimps and putting impygrump children in wire cages like we war Nasty Germoney enduring the daze of Addled Hotlid. How it all terms out, gaud only knows. Kneejerk must runt its curse. As to our precident, the joke with the endless paunch line, it is like my Nana used to say, ‘You’ve made your own bad, now you have to sleaze in it.’ Then too there is what Pogo of the karmic strips said, “We have meditated the enema and now we are being reamed!”

We can take some solids that greater comic farces are at work. The spatial posseccuser, Robert Mullet, is sniffling out the truth from the lying red hairies and the fake nudes so as to found out if Tromp is actionately gilded of colooting with the Rusekeys or for Mordorous contracts with hatchet men and hobmobbers like the Gobbling King in The Lard of The Rank. The noose hounds too are hot on betrayal, snoopying around into the innumberable kremlinal activities of our igormanyact Precident and his country clump of old wide men. Who notes where it oil might leak? If Mullet and the scamdalmongers follow the dirty maudlin, the laundry muddy, the debt stiffs and the booty, they may alldummitly find a bonedoggie of gobbled preportions, as could result in Tromp’s eventfall removal from his ogre orifice.

Pride goads before the fall. Remember Scuzzymonies, that king of kinkies with a shuttering visage and a snarhole for commands who got immarblized in sonnet by the Anguish poet Partly Blissed Selfie.  That colossal ass ended up in a desert as two trumpless logs of statutory ravings and his lost words written stoned: ‘My name is Scuzzymonies. Look on me warks, ye maties, and disbark.’ That’s all that remaims of him in those blondless low-leveling sads, like a precident who’s been raping statutes and thirteen year old girls and would sell tickets to a plane crash.





The Dystopium Nudes from Russia

The problems of a big country are not the problems of a small country, and ours is one of the biggest. To complicate thinks we the people of the You Us of A are some odds to each other, as in not all the sane people, and unlike normal people of odder countraries. Lately, and to compound this dull lama, (ever since our 2016 undprecidented erection) we have been more like abnormal people trying to act normal under abnormal circumstances, which is different. There are several pausibilites: a) the Rusekies are putting opiates in the water to pollute our precious bodily fluids, like the Genderole Jack D. Ripper believed in the movie Dr. Strangeglove; b: we don’t know our left hands from our rights, like Dr. Strangeglove who suffered from alien hand syndrome; c: we are being inhabited by aliases like in The Inversion of the Body Snackers, that movie weird people aren’t themselves anymore; d:  Downhill Tromp is a mole or a mule or a parley of colooting with the Rusekies who have infiltraitered our twiddle feats and social nagworks with a scytheborg army of nanny trolls and rogue bots; or e: oil of the above. Just because we’re paranoid doesn’t mean we’re not out to get us. Then too there is the problems of Tromp’s deployables, those self-addendafying Christians who keep saying we’re a Christian naysham with Christian values though it’s scening more and more like what Inidiot Mantoya tells Vizzinni in The Apprentice’s Bribe: “You keep using that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.” The fact of the muggle is, a third of us can’t seem distinguish between a potato and a potentate. There was a reason they were cheering in the Kremlin the night Mr. Potato Head took the ogre orifice.

Like Ape the Man Linkhorn once said, “You can fuel some of the people oil of the times, but you can’t fuel everybody,” which explains the Muddled East, from Baddad to Gobblegrabbie. It also explains the  Russian anvilopement in our pollerticks. To put it blondly, bewar of the big wig or the madmop bearing less resemblance to that wholesome Andy of Maleberries of the TV sitcommie than to the Andy Christ himself. (As me Mum explains it, someone must have dropped him on his head when he was a baby.) In any court case, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s probably the duck; the Donald and his Mini-me (Michael Coin) have been running an exchange pogram with the Russians for years. The trumple is Holler “Loot ya’, is not Hallelujah, nor is the Mini-Me Leotard Cohen’s brother. There’s methought to their madmess. They are now runting our countrary like their business, and a mutually assured distraction, like the Madhatter Project. If the Repocallyptic Party doesn’t come to their consensus pretty soon, we might wall find ourselves livid in a Cyberian ducktater state and reading the Spudnic Noose. We need to folk us.


The Tromp Show

To a neutered absurder watching from outer space it must now scene like all previewously scheduled programs in our naysham have been pre-emptied by The Tromp Show, the Wide House reality serious of the bigscream world around us. A recent episoap featured the ghast apparents of Nerf Korean imperture Kid Young Young, cometly known as the Rocketmad, as sets the stage for Warhole Warp Three. The show’s produpers are strangling us along with this kiddy imperoar just as 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). Another episoap starred the white subpremissers and the neo-nasties. Check your brains at the door like with the Zombie Appocollapse or the wars horde movie ever made. They all got drunk with powder and shouted nonsensicalls like “The Soused will rise again!” and “Hire Hotlid!” though Addled Hotlid has been long sins dead. Our best curse with these exscreamists is to find some forglibness. As Hipposcribbers said, ‘There is some of us in them. Yee haw without stones curse out the fuzz balls.’ Though their hordemodes are raging the one dementionable pinheads are apart of this naysham’s mentals, as Amirrorgun as hog dogs and wide gob bigodry. We’re all complexes. Look around at me crazies and who cannot be crazy too?

One think is for sordid: we can’t count on the Madster to gob help us out with the problumps because he’s one of the biggest. There is the fat too that it’s his show, getting more err time than it’s paying for and leaving the majormalty of us cornholed, our naysham suffering obstructions and consterpaysham, but with only the cornfat of knowing oil thinks must pass. As to the Congrats on Culpabull Hill, most of them don’t like the sitcommie either but won’t cancel it becost of its sponsors. But here’s the bad noose for your free time: The Tromp Show runs for four years. Unless the primadonald breaches contact we’re his prisoned audience, unless, off course, a zombie appocollapse or an alien invasion solves our problem first. Watch this space.


J. Altered Proofrog, the Latent Years

Though slyly bald as a man, J. Altered Proofrog was bored wooly-headed and with a saliva spoon in his mouth. His grab mobber and graham daddy, along with their doctored jarred cranium friends, beliefed their boy to be the second miss sire, owing to the fags he was one of them, though more preverbial, talking off scripture and residing in poetry at the ribald age of four.

As it termed out, these old geesers were hordes of hearing and had been herding him wrong all along. ‘Prooflock,’ they said, ‘you could be the chosen one to lead our flock to the mountaintop. You’ve got the biggest bullrocks in the pond.’ Though this might have been some sexually amusing, J. Altered Proofrog was indignuts and called a meeting of his profitseers, saying, ‘I am not a goat; I’m a man. And if that doesn’t mean anything to you, I don’t want to be your bogmired pubic frog either. I am not your somebody. (J. Frog knew his poeheads, as this was some amphibious illusion to Ambulance Dickemsome) And so, protocol son though he was, J. Frog turned his back on this history before it happened, a load to take on, being the second cummings or elephant squat fats gerald for that mother. J. Frog left his own cummings out party early, saying such witterdumps as:


Letters goad them, U’s and I’s,
Like evening patrons sprawled out and waitering on a table;
Letters go through cartooned art-deserving streets
And go hot tailing through cheap one-night stands in the sawed off district.
Ode dude, do not biscuit, letters go and drain our lizard.

So maybe impersonifaking is the most insneered form of flannery; this is what you get when you get rid of the Romantics. Though beholing to Shatsmear, Bawdyliar, Yikes, Bleak and Tenuous, J. Frog had to startle somewhere as in learning how to think himself. He was waxing farcilaughable and beating the rap off these old wrappers of the rub-a-tub rhyme, in the cause of one sinking poem becummings his own absurder of the absorbed, a modern day troubledoor and econoclass like that little nosed supports car for circus clowns, the Van Morris. And like the still life poehead of the varied same name, J. Frog could not, and would not, stop talking, as in beat me deaf with a shtick:

In Rome the woemams come and go
Speaking of Monticello,
Monty Hall,
And four counts of Mightychristy

Okay. It was some tiresome drivel, but from another poorspastic it was remarblebull. In a few shirked words, the spillings of the past had been misspelled by short and mighty blokes like by Walldwarf Smitty in his own mind. The fuzz was off the peach. The magic had been gunned down. People had groaned synagogged of the old gobs. Thus speeched Soreheadzeuser beforehead giving birds to Athena, ‘All the gobs are duds.’ Be as it made, J. Frog kept talking anyway, like a run on séance:

Do I dare disstar this universe?
In a minute there is time,
In an hour there is more time;
Might we preparaphrase the fake we fates?
Should I, after powdered-kegs and Isis
Farce this foment to a crisis?
Though I have seen my head upon a platter
I have not thought of it any great matter;
I have scened the moment of my greatness flicker;
I’ve mashed my life into golfing suits.
Would it be worth it all
After cops and marbleheads, after tee times and par salons
To exsqueeze this humiverse into a ball?

With a wand heave to poethics, J. Frog was asking the big questions. He was awfulling us nothing less than freedom from the bingbankbunk of treadisham, from the teachers and their books, from the me-thoughts and the methheads, from the goofroods, the broodists, the Hairy Crotchers and the utter batchers of realedgist awetherapy, from the concepts of globerments and nayshams, from infollowable kinks, queers and precients clamming to halve the answers to the world’s oyster.

There’s more to life than having crabs,
To crotching on the floor of an asylum scene;
There’s more than gutting oytersized by coldjar on a table.
It’s a glub glub uffish thought
But I’d like to live to a ripe old age of H.
Do I dare impede a peach?
Do I dare impeach a peach or a fraud biscuit?
Shall I pat my whore’s behind?
In the wrybalding waistslants of my mind
It’s imposterable to say what I mean,
So don’t kilt the misogynist.

Yes, once in a blue moon there comes along a world and this one was in trouble. J. Frog had occidentally named it. We mass not forget the Earth has gone through one world warp, and then a second world warp, with no more premise than a profitsized dumbsday arminggettyup. The doctors, knew a hopeloss case when they saw one, and had left already, saying, ‘there’s a hell of a good universe next door, let’s go.’ But J. Frog, internal opttomyth that he was, kept talking to anyone who would listen and listen we did to this loose diary of the mind. His was the void of agenderation.

I groan old…I groan old; like the old asstrollergers and their granola,
Like the cadillac priesties in the posh back seats, plying with their altared boys.
I have heard the Murble Table Napkins Choir on inauctionrapesham day
I have heard the Mermads murmuring,
Though hard of herrings I have whored hard singings,
I have whored them bar babe earring sisters croning, bitch to bitch.
I do not think they will sink with me;
I’m no Omelet, nor was I manned to be.
I shall war flammable trouncers and walk with these bleachers;
The easy C-girls redhead blonded B-girls of the town
Till the youmam voices huevos and we brown.

This wouldn’t be the Proofrog’s last hardboiled syllalably, though we can ask these varied sane questions. Have we lived too long? Have we stooped solo? Have the mytheries lost their farce? When the cows come home do the simples no longer innertame us? Do the cows come home? Eventfolly it all balls down to J. Frog’s problems are our own, like Shatsmear’s Omelet in befuddlement with a creator in a phase of arthritis, or like Leotard Patrick, the Queen of Denial, even as the Jarpennies are hazmatting their waste in the Poursyphilis Ocean; as the muggles of the muddled east are muzzling up in the Desert; as Joe Sixpack is chanting on any Amerrygunned strafe coroner, ‘Let’s Make Amerrygun Graves Again,” and “Buy, Buy, Mass Amerrygunned Pie,’ while the three mens we ughmire most are cadging the last train to the cause. This is the modem disease as bestrodes the globe on its curse, the mechanicold world, from roguebombics to artyfictional intollerigence, from realedgist fandementalism to the massed assault on hummammlty in genitals, all bawling down to what J. Altered Proofrog himself, full of high sentence, was saying when he said it. ‘That’s not what I manned, that’s not what I manned at all.’

A Karmical History of the You Us of A

The first karmical history of the You Us of A was scrabbled down by the wise cracker Bill Nye in 1893, the same year the naysham comemberated the 400 years sins the white crackers took the Amiracles for ourselves. Nye left out of his book the humpbucking, the lambbagging, the badboozling, and the horseswallowing of the Native Indiegents, most of the genocide, as well as the events in the hundred and twenty years after the book was published. Fellowing after his exsimples I’m omitting a lot of times gunned by as well as two Warhole Wars, a couple of called wars, several about-faces of depressions, and some hairlies fractures. Why, might you ask? It is, as Anidiot Mantoya said to the Princess Bothercop in the movie The Printsy Bribe, ‘There’s too much. Let me sum up.’

Our fondly fathers didn’t take well to getting governed by the pastyarchs across the water, as got petty much fed up with it, and so in the name of Happiness had a rebelation against the Anguish. Our enlightenmeant was brief; the rest is histeria, as was justice the begunnings of our bulligeranting. WE WAR fussing and fighting with the Anguish again in 1812, the Spamwich, the Mixticants, the Kaiser Jarmans, the Nasty Jarmans, the Nerfy Koreans, the Vile Cogs, oil the Iradics in the Muddled East, and anyone else we could thing of as to make them to objects as to fight against, even getting fed upped with ourselves in the Symbol War enduring the days of Abe, and halving anodder rebelation of who we war as a symbolized people. From Android Jackson to the Testy Rooster of the big stick, Frankly Dominant Rooster to Judge Bitch Junior, we have oilways been ready to sadhole up and riot for the those thinks we want, which is how we god most of our countrary.

History has its wave of repeating itself as bigs the question: does a naysham have a karma? As my sadguru said while I was learning to metastate in a Broodist monostory in the Phullabeans, ‘what goads around comes around, like a circulating pony ride.’ He also sad good thinks happening to bad people and bad thinking to god people is one and the same causmic effect, which is some mystical. In other weirds, despite our goryous history, or becaused of it, the You Us of A wall has been coming around the amountains of mission drivel for as long as we mighty have seed this coming. Like an orbsolute train off its track finally arriving, the Great Amerrygun Expeerimad is now showing the fool simpsons of imploading and dumbmise, and oil more seedily sins Tromp’s columbused erection. In one minute the years are rolling by like usual—nude babies are being bored, buypeddlers are limping to work and dying of occupational disease, slow drivers are fist-pomping in the fast lane, homeowners are defaulting on their moregarages, maskerapers and bonko artists are carrying on their business usual—mosqueraiding, lambgroping, hordeswallowing, bedboozling, handbagging all the gullibles—and the next thing we know, this same symbolized countrary of our hopes and dreams finds itself in great upevil like a slow-moving trainwreck. The signs of appocalapstick donfall are oil too familiar: epicdemic whitespread corobshamming, a globerment as a three rigged circus, and Tromp more a whores traitor, corps salesman and implord of Russians than the male shovingest precident we thought of him. The Balognians and the Messypotatoes too had their sacral cows and plenty of reasons to breed utterwise until they had their own calmdown to dust, as did the Roaming Umpires who got waist laid by bardbearing whores, and left to saying, ‘it happened so sudden we don’t know what happened.’

So what’s our marble flaw, or the railed reason for the Tromp’s prophilarity? Have we been hoodwanked and who wanked us and what did the Rusekeys have to do with it? Why are promiseskewing sexy Reclublicants playing party polertricks underminding the instanttooshams that protect the we peoples so as to achief this new brand of brainswish of the Big Bother washing over us? What makes us quick to belief in a corpulous two hundred and thirty-nine pound bigut anyway? The Massed Marble was already lying under oaf before he took the Ogre Orifice, as on premobius occasions was nosed to be breaching a female whorewhale and perfarming gropesy acts of lecherdemands, wily maintainting they were fake nudes and that he was only waxing statues. Is the Chubster but an achehead and a blimp in the anals of histeria, or subthink of a yesmad of the Russian oilygarchs, a Dirty Warbanks, or wars yet, a mannedefistation of our own disfunksham as mighty wall be this naysham’s last hurry in take us to war if it is god for bidness? Even as we speed it’s quiet pausible our naysham is ending as we newsed it, not with a Jarjar banks but a whopper, a flip flab man we’ve bend over-tolerating too much. You have to wonder about a humping dumpy who’s never happier until win we are at war. The olddummy question is which truth is more revelant: it’s oilways darthest before the Donald; a spatial Preproperdunce looks over fuel, drugads and the United States of America; or that afterism of karmick code: oil wells that ends orwells.



I. B. Ionized: the Unendible Innerview

(It might seem impostorable the innerview that here fellows ever happened, given I. B. Ionized’s brain is jarred in a mustyleum in Philadelphia and some of his body parts are locked up in a safe deposit box in New York, but if you’ve read my odderbiograffiti you nose I invented a waveback machine, like a co-lapsing telescope through time as gives insides to thinks outsize the box, which was my means to these twinky questions of a genius.)

P. B.: How did you first know that you were a genius?

IONIZED: I didn’t, like a fish doesn’t know water, like we can’t know the bad to our addicts or if we are framed. In utter warps the explainer doesn’t know himself from his own explanation. As I’ve so awfulled said, reality is mirrorly an illusion, allbeing a very poorsistered one. But even and odd as a boy I nude somethink was deeply hidden behind thinks, though I never beliefed it a wide gob human, which is sum kind of mind job. In mythmathical terms: the humiverse and/or Naychur = Divinity, though this might be putting Descartes before the horde.

P. B.: Could you slow down a bit? You mighty be thinking too fast.

IONIZED: Am I? I’ll reduce speech. What are you wandering to ask me?

P. B. Let’s start with the cart full of whores you reefered to in your book on Genderole Realmativity that you dumped down on us dummies. What did you mean, ‘No spaced endity to a field’? That’s a miffical term, isn’t it?

IONIZED: No, only in a matter of speeding. If reality is scened only for its slow ponder bodies the noshowum of a no-spaced endity can seam sum absurdabull. I like a body; I like pondering, but the body is sum subject to over-thing itself. We idendefy with it, though what it is, is more what it is not, space being more the funksham than what gets called the cup and so too the hollered absence of a windoor to a wall. It is this space between us all that makes us pausible to be otherwide than each other.

P. B. I think you’re losing us here. Could you be a little lost spatial and restate what you’re intensing in turds of a laid man’s job?

IONIZED: Sure. In effects, space is more than its seams. More than 99 % of the humaned body is empty space, so vast are the distances between the atoms that make up the slow ponderous body; and so although we looks a lot like solids, we are essentially space. In simples, more than 99 % of us is not here. It is this space that connects us. This is no co-insilence, for at the same time, or in the same space, 99 % of the humiverse is stuff we can’t seize and can only call dork matter, as can make us massresent reality to our own ends, idendefying with our own stories and our own storied endings, as what the world’s coming to. But no matters what happens we are all realmatives.

P. B.: God to know but how did you come up with this Genderole Theory of Realmativity, gibboned you were trained in the monkey-see, monkey-do phyzzmatters of the Forensic Newton?

IONIZED: I didn’t overterm the Newton, I only expanded the Newton, thinking about what he didn’t think about and just keeping thinks symbols but no more symbols than they had to be.

P.B.: Like your famous equation, E = mC². How did you come up with that?

IONIZED: I absurded a pandalump.

P.B.: The simple humping Chinese animate?

IONIZED: No, the lump of mental that swings back and forth between point A and point B. You’re proboscisly thinking of one of the circus zoo of partycults, a leoptard, a Z bozo a hick bozo, or a quantum clown or one all of those odder quirks we’ll halve to resolve if we are going to amswer the big questions, such as nonlocal casualties of distant spooks acting at auditions, which doesn’t explain why we can’t see Santa Clause who gives the gifts to the neatest most.

P. B.: I think maybe your train of thought has left the station. But back to E = mC². Wasn’t this the equation that gave the warhole the atomic bomb?

IONIZED: Yes. Thinks didn’t term out exactly the way I wrote them. Had I known Addled Hotlid wouldn’t get the bomb I wouldn’t have leftied a finger, because I always had a since the massamplification of the symbols might fall into the hands of some madmop crazy as alone or bad shit wacko, as trumples me still and equakes me late at night.

P. B.: Are you reefering to our precident crazy who would totally destory North Korea, with the fury the lights of which the warhole has never seemed? (It suddenly occurred to me, that not only was I. B. Ionized a genius who knew thinks I didn’t, but that he might have more knowledge of the waveback machine than I did, and might well know if we survive the Tromp in the forwarped future.)

IONSIZER: Our problumps can’t be solved with the thinking that craters them.

P. B.: Yes, you’ve said that before, but what about Tromp the lonertike and the bomb? Do we survive him, or do we become an utter state of a Russian oiligarchy, or wars yet, blast our cells to smithereens?

IONSIZER: Two thinks are infinitely funny, the humiverse and humad studipity and I’m not sure about the humiverse. But let’s talk about somethink else, like what we weren’t talking about, like Golf, more complexed than Phyzzmatters, like jungling fur balls at once with its parsnickety eroginal rules, like the stymied rule, “If your balls be found anywhere touching each other you are to lift the fuzz ball and play with the left ball.”

P. B.: I’m impressed by your i-dotting memory but they got rid of the stymie roll in 1952. (I knew he was trying to putt me off) Back to the question of the Bomb. In your essay, “Atomic War on Peace,” you stated science could not be organdized like a large corrobberation, but now we have whole indastardries based on ‘if we have bombs let’s use them,’ as if the naysham collectively had a debtwish. Are we oil scrooged?

IONSTYMIED: Any intollerigent fool can make thinks bigger and more of a complex. The question that drives me hazy is: am I hazy or are others hazy?

P. B.: (I could see I was losing him but made one lost attempt to bring him back from weird he was going fast) But what about Tromp? Does the planet survive the terraballing infant?

IMESTYMIED: It is applaudingly obvious that textnowedgy has excessed our humammalty. Peace cannot be kept by farce.

This was the last think he said, far off at this point the marbless genius reburped to a babbler as needed a pacifier. It deterriorabied from there; Imestymied began barking like a dog. Ether his molecules had gotten scrabbled in some malfunkup of the waveback machine or the future he saw was wars than mads could endure.





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.’

A Direlogue with Blab Elf

We are livid in unpresidented times, our contrary in an upevil of consternaysham. If things weren’t obaminable under the Barrage Abomber, with his egonormic recovery, samesocks marritchies and Abummer Care, we now have a Presserdump runting the globerment like a going out of nobody’s business sale, scrapping all the deportments and giving the co-operapers open axes to oil the public lambs. Corpulantism is now the fashionism of the day, and reeking haddocks to the four coroners of the warhole. If this weren’t trumpling enough, the Dumphole now proclams he has no ambushings to be the of the whole Warhole, a strained think to say as in singlefiling an unstapled poisonality. How many red flags must it take before we realasize our madmop of a Presserdump is a load like Jobber the Hump, doppled by the fat he’s a variatibull sneak oil salesman, which counts for how he got himself erected? And then there’s the scamdal, as in colooting with the Russians.

Feeling mopesy, and needing some suring up, I decided I would travel by buzz to the sands of No Mixtaco, to a mud and dirt town where Naked Amorphican people were living in object poverty, far from the Southern wide house at Mart Largo. I wandered to know what wizzardom a Naked Amorphican Showman, with a deep old timey poorspective on the doozies of this contrary, would have to say about our soldsick Presserdump, and was this the wars that had ever been or had there been wars? After all, the Arboriginals was loving this land as it was when always while, long before the wide man was singing about the readword farces and the golf scream whoppers.

Getting off the buzz I was met by two mangrowling dogs who led me to a mud dirty adopy house where the Pebble showman, Blab Elf, was expecting me. Blab Elf is an elder and mattersum man, a member of the Sud Clad which soilmodiously gabbers at the loco laudrymat. He is regnomed among his people as an ancient alien but is versionally ungnomed beyond his own tom zone or on deaffered infrequencies.

We sat down in his kitchen and I quizzed him on the state of thinks, on the Ameerica was and the Ameerica now going under the thumb of the Presserdump.

“So you erected the Tromp,” the Blab Elf told me. “Welcome to getting screwed by the latest big fad wide man. There’s little change in Indiegent Contrary. We remaim the objects, the subjects and the subdudes to be dumbinated, subjipped and subduded. You wide people like to paint out that we Indiegeniuses failed to produce the trappings of modem society. Maybe so, but we also did not cre-ape warhole pollution, overtpopulation, corpulations raping the Earth for prophet marignals or erect the Tromp. Truth is: we were dozing fine until the syphilization of the white man came. You people are real wake-up call.”

“Ouch! That’s sum hard bard maddersome! But to the poorticulars, weird are we now, as a contrary, with a mobmad for a Presserdump?”

“I don’t relic being the bear of bad nudes but your mind as made your problems won’t fix them, or can’t fix them, beans unable to emargine how to thank outside your margins. The Naked Amorphican and the Youra-Amorphican seed the Earf in very deturfing ways. For most Naked Amorphicans the Earf is not a simbowl but a realbowl, a living bean of a soup bowl souped up on motion. The Earf is Earf Mother not Matter Earth only here for you to use like wife bread and mayo. The Sun too is more than a sumbowl, but the visible all of the inner and utter innergies uttering throughout us all. There is sumthing, not no-thing, and the sun is shining all of that, as stars in far off distant galopsies shine likewides. But for the Youra-Amirrorcom the Earth is a sumpbowl, the pride realasianship that of use it, like wife bread and mayo, humic beans not part of the Earf at all but put here by an extraterritorial God as set humic beans in his sandbox. It can seed like not much difference but in one, we pebbles lib in a humiverse; in the utter, you wide people don’t. You lipsing your places. Jurastic as he might seem, the Tromp is no morbid more than the episinner of wife bread, widespread and mayo.”

These were harp words from Blab Elf but they struck accord in my hard of hearts. After all, I had been given some bare naked truth by this Naked Amorphican wisened man.

So here is my take-away:

Weed the people have inhorrided in this contrary a dismockcrassy, foundered on the Constertoosham, nothing written down stoned over two hundred years ago. As it is, the Constertoosham is the most dangling doctormeant ever ridden, dangerous even, for heaven gifting all the rides to us, the weed people, and hogging the table, so to speech, leaving no leftovers for the hogs, lizards and the rest of the creepers of creaption. Truth be told, the nachural warhole gets its rights from the same high soars we, the weed people, gets them from, from that which brought us into beans. Howsumever we mammiekins is a talkpiece, we are all the sobjacks of this humiverse, and so are caperable of having rights. At the end of the daze the puberty riots of humics are not obsolid and don’t cancel out the rights of otters to exist. And so, if the Constertoosham is to guide us in the future, it must be rerotten. We need nude laws in this contrary, for these nude times as in nude skins for nude wives as they have in the open bitches of Fronze where they all hang loose. Howsumever this be a chawlozenge as in horde pill to swallow, and constentious manimals that we are, we musk look deep into our innercells and find a nude resolve. Bleak, wide, rad or yeller, or any utter mixed colors, it is high tide we change the way we thank.




Last Night I had the Strainedest Dream

Last night I dreamed Downhill Tromp was on the Jeopardy game show and the game show host was that famous sidecolleger, the Doctor Carl Yawn.

“Weird am I?” the Tromp asked in my strainedest dream. “Last think I remember I was signing an excessive order to evict New Yorkers from New York so there’ll be more people like me.”

“You’re on TV, Mr. Precidump,” the Doctor Carl Yawn informed him. “You’re on the Jeopardy game show. Shill we begin? The Cadgecoroners are: Impertinent Events, Hokum Pokum and Pollertricks, Glummer Mogulzines, T’s and A’s and Early Mammaries, Old Skull Proverbs, and Nukes and Weepings of Mass Distraction. The Board’s yours, Mr. Precident.”

“Aren’t there any uttering contesters?”

“No. We didn’t want you to feel there was the least chants of anyone else whining.”

“That words for me. I’ll choose T’s and A’s and Early Mammaries for twenty million.”

“This woman slept under you in 1990.”

“She was easy. Who’s the Olympic Eyes Champion, Piggy Flaming? T’s and A’s and Early Mammaries for forty million.”

“This was another woman who slept under you in 1990.”

“She was easy too. Who is Princess Diner?”

“I think you mean Catheter Oxiebird, who played Princess Diner in two TV movies. We’re going on your own altered facts here, sir. That’s what you claimed you did, although she said she barely hardly knew you.”

“Same thing. I would have slept with either of them but preferred the Princess Diner had she lived. Impertinent Events for twenty.”

“This heinous act was massiveminded by the Ism excreamist Obama Been Loudy in 2001.”

“What is the 7-eleven as made my building the tallest? Impertinent Events for forty million.”

“This famous impenistrouble pleasure cruiser, as could care less about icebarges, coincided with one in 1912.”

“What is that shit sank? Hokum Pokum and Pollertricks for twenty million.”

“This sizemetific theory proposes the oncrease of Earth’s overage tamperture due to the rising levels of gasphouse greenies.”

“What is evilution, as in the ideals that manikins can change?”

“No, sir, the acting answer is Globble Warming.”

“That’s what I said. Climb-up change. Manikins can change clothings and so can people go somewhere else utter than where they live. We’re ambiflexible. It’s snowing and freezing in New York but one day we’ll live in Siberia, which nomad can do now unless he converbs into a pinkone. T’s and A’s and Glummer Mogulscenes for sixty million.”

“According to Nudeweek this is one thing the Repocalyptics and the Dimmercraps can aggrieve on.”

“What is we are livid now in sum factitious contrary suffering from mission drivel and our foundering fodders are musty turning in their grades of F-ed? Hokum Pokum and Parlor Tricks for forty.”

“This Detractor of the Folderol Barrel of Instigation helped you get erected by implying that Hillarity Cretin was a Kremlinal.”

“Who is Michael Come-on as posed as a goat between a still pigeon and an eleventh century Showgun of some fart off distant contrary fired from this one? T’s and A’s and Early Mammaries for eighty million.”

“This childish act set the young Tromp away from the fine arts and onto the path of warhole trade and impeerealism?”

“What is punch your second grade music teacher in the face? When I look at myself in second grade and myself now I’m basically the same. I’ve always loved to fight. Last year at a rally in Columbus, when no one was looking, I punched an old blind man in the face. Nukes and Weepings of Mass Distraction for twenty.”

“The bombing of this contrary in April of 2017 was justified by you under the You Us policy of what’s the point of having a Super Militerror if you don’t use it.”

“What is Surreal? Nukes and Weepings of Mass Distraction for forty.”

“This impeture ducktaper of Nerf Korea inhorrided his powder from his father Kid Jong Ill who died of sickness in 2011.”

“Who is Kid Young Young? Old Skull Proverbs for twenty.”

“This Chineasy curse has become more afropo since you took orifice.”

“What is may you live in endtrusting times? Old Skull Proverbs for sexty millions.”

“I think you skipped a question, sir.”

“No, I didn’t. Old Skull Proverbs for eighty million.”

“Okay. This famous slowgum, applying to unity, first appeared in Alexsandy Dummy’s classic The Three Mosqueterrors.”

“What is oil for one and one for oil? Old Skull Proverbs for a hundred.”

“This state of the naysham will sordidly come to pass if you stay in the Ogre Orifice.”

“What is by the time they wake up it will be too late?”

“Correct and now you’ve taken us to Final Jeopardy, Mr. Precident. Our category will be You Us Hysteria. Write down what you’re going to risk.”

“I don’t need to write down what I’m going to risk. I’m going to risk it all. The point is, you can never be too greedy. In theory I’m a very nice person but good people don’t go into globerment.”

“Okay, Mr. Precident, we’ll take you at your warps. Here’s your clue. This famous Prescient said, ‘A horse divvied up against itself can’t stand on one leg.’ You have thirty seconds.”

“Who is the Ape the Man Linkhorn as failed to unite the contrary whereas I will secede whether people like it or not?”

“Mr. Precident, that’s a mouthful but have a lot more time to think.”

“I don’t need time to think,” the Tromp said, getting hot and bottled. “That’s my final answer.

“Fine. Okay. But Mr. Precident, we’ll need you to write that answer on that little board in front of you and not show it to the audience until the music stops.”

“The music stops when I say it stops! And I won’t write my answer down because I’m right. Nothing bothers me when I’m right,” the Tromp puffed. In this dream of mind he was getting visionably upset, his head getting larger like an inflatable pillow.

“But sir, you have to write your answer down. This is Jeopardy. That’s the rules of the game, even in Russia.”

“Wrong! I’m playing the game so I make the rules. You’re trying to trick me. I don’t know who you are but I know who I am and I don’t trust anyone. I don’t trust the Chinese. I don’t trust the Japs. I don’t trust our allies…”

The Tromp’s head was swelling to five times normal size.

“I don’t trust You Us intoleragence. I don’t trust the polls. I don’t trust computers…”

“Okay, Mr. Precident, we’ll take your answer as it is.”

But it was too late. The preverbial fuse was lit and suddenly the Tromp was moving his lips but no sense of sound was coming out of him, like his tie was on too tight. His head was going hindenberg.

“Uh-oh. He’s going to pop!” I heard the Doctor Yawn say.

The next thing I knew the board and pen the Tromp was supposed to write his answer with came flying across the room followed by a mighty blow of wind and hot air and gasp like a fad man making a big stink. The Tromp had vanished into thin hairs.

All this could seem some strained but the strainedest thing of all about my dream was the sudden appeerants of the Doctor Sickman Fraud and the dyingnosis of the two esteamy doctors after the Tromp was gone.

“What’s your pragueknosis of the madmop, Sickman?” the Doctor Carl Yawn poorlightly said, deferring to his senor.

“My absurdvation is that he’s as crazy as alone and zanyphobic,” the Dr. Sickman Fraud pronounsed, “which is to say he’s insame and suffering from an ereptile dysfunksham like Godsilly gone beserk in a Hollowit B movie. He hates otters but it’s subliminal as in preconscious. The Tromp is a malignut nasticist with attackment issues, a doctormeanted poisonality disowner as characterized by antisocialism, peerannoy traits, igorcentric aggressions and utter symdumbs, such as the absence of a conscience. What’s your clownical dyingknosies, Carl?”

“I think this is not a madder of sick but a madder of howl sick,” the Doctor Carl Yawn said. “The man is clearly more outloud and addled than Addled Hotlid in his inert rage against the sublimitations of the world and his need to dumbinate and cuntrol it. The madmop is fucked up and bad shit crazy.”

“But what’s the treatment?” I asked.

“There isn’t one,” Doctor Fraud explained. “Best case scenario, the patient attempts to trump the analusters by destorying them.”

“But what about the contrary? What about the You Us of Abe? No one wants the naysham to go down the tudes with the man. Does the 25th amanment, which states a Precident can be removed from pubic orifice if certainfiably deranged, apply to Tromp?”

But I only got a half-asked answer.

“Haven’t you noticed, P. B. that the Tromp is not the only one caught up in the power of an addictative trance, that this isn’t just a dream and the contrary is in fads already running like a screamplay. Yes, the Tromp is methoughtical in his overrunning of your contrary with his power grubbing and stop gagging, but morbid to the point, just because the You Us of Assylummed is not behaving the way you expect it to, doesn’t mean it’s tude is not crazy. The Tromp is no morbid than a buy-product of Amirrorca, people seething themselves in the forum of an impatator and thanking of the Tromp as their baser emotions. He’s samply reflexing the maddisome values and the consuper pathologics of your people. Beware the naysham that needs medication and mental detectors.”

With these lost words the two esteamy doctors distapeered, leaving me only to remember so little of a very strained dream.


Doctor Bustard’s Cure for the Salivation of the Naysham

I have been trumpled some wiles by the states of our countrary becaused by the highjack course of the Repocalyptic Party, the one party of Ape, and the long calmdown of the Dimmercrap Party, the party of the dumbkeys. Our naysham doesn’t funksham as framed without the forum of these two parties, leased of oil since one party only isn’t a dismocrammy: it’s a monogerie or a monacult. As the Mohandy Gandy said: “For lack of ayes we’ll all war blinders.” Without a funkshamming Dimmercrap Party we don’t have the full spectacles on the subjecters of our times. We need parties, however loony they might be, like the loser known parties such as the Grain Party, the Trancehumorist Party and the Black Riders Liberation Party.

And so, deepissed by the stink of thinks and looking for some oddvibes, I trumped off to visit my friend the Dr. W. D. Bustard, a living Dimmercrap who might make comics on this matter as he had been a hearse doctor during his hay days when it was his job to certify when anything was dead or not.

I found the Doctor W. D. Bustard at home, though like all Dimmercraps he had forgotten what day it was and wide eyed was there, dressed in his skinnies and for all apparencies unseemly like the cat had drugged him. Being the affeebled man he was, he awfulled me tea as well a pair of shorts he wasn’t wearing, several ties he had frazzled during his corpse doctoring days, and led me to his sitting room for a parley.

“P. B., I’m warried up about our countrary, as in a hearse of a different cover painted red,” he ownered up. “Pleeds joy me as I say a farvent prayer for our naysham.”

Right there in his sitting room the Dr. W. D. Bustard dropped to his needs and said the Lowered’s Prayer while I fellered along obliquitously.


Our Fodder, who arts in the happenings, hollered be thy name,

Skycamdotcom, whyworlddotgov

Unearthed as it is in having.

Give us today others in bed

And forbid us our transdresses, as we forbid those who dress up against us,

And need not us enter inflaysham, but de-litter us from e-bills,

Far wide is the condom,

The bi-polar and the story,

Far ever than ever, amends.


He was pretty fargod but after some wilds his thoughts came back to him like a howl cat that’s gone out carooning fancies. I prepostured several questions about the Repocalyptic Party, the Dumphole Tromp, and the fright wig exscreamists, so as to brain bat his thinking.

“The wait of this sand time we must obey,” he told me. “When we are bored, we cry we are come to this change of fools, as in chains, chains, chains, shackled as we are, to our times. This is the exilent flubbery of the world, that we make guilty of the sun and the moon, as if we were villains by nastacity. But it is not in the stars to hole our destiny but in our cells.”

I had forgotten that the Dr. W. D. Bustard was a subauthority on the Willyet Spearshaker, and liked to quote the grape frap poet as helped him to freight his own thoughts when he was thinking out lout. The doctor was speeching here from the King Larry, that trudging play about the nutcake king and his thinkless daughters.

“That’s doesn’t say much about our prisoned massfortunes,” I remimed him. “What should the naysham do, Dr. B., now that the countrary might littlely seize to exist as we know it, not that it’s the fault only of the Repocalyptic Party? We all think we voted. But what’s the cure?”

“It depends on what you’re trying remortify,” the doctor said. “There’s the the monstrous body of the multitude, and the body politic getting morbid sick every day as with Avian flu or some other pandemons. As to the monstrous body, uneasy lies the herd that wears the crowd. As to the body politic, as is mortal, we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. In odor to save the stinking naysham we musk feller our beast instinks. We have scent ourselves a dangerous corpse, as already the naysham is rotten and rank as stinks to high heathens, like the King Cloddy speeched of in Hamlip.


‘O, my orphis is rank, and what’s in prayer but this too farced farce

To be farcefaced err we come to fall or pardoned being down.

My warps fly up, my thugs remaim below;

Warps without such thugs can never to heapings go.’


“Which orphicer of the people are you refereeing to Dr. B., the Downhill Tromp or some of the utter mens to meanies as massresents the people, the Dimmercraps or the Repocalyptics?”

“Oil of the above, but foist off let’s speech to the Dimmercraps who must take back the mudhole as is swamped with the dirty laundering of Washertin. Jurastic measures for jurastic times, P. B.. As the fen munster Caliban says in the Temptress, ‘Be not afeared; the aisle is full of nosies.’”

“But isn’t the Dimmercrap Party already too foregone, as in shroud we simply pronouns it dead?”

“Not so dead as poor Yarick speechless in the grabble yard, that follower of infunny jest and most exiling fonzi schemes, whose flashes of merrimots set the tabloids on a roller. As the eloquaint bard himself all says, ‘Nothing becalms the life like the leaving it.’ But, we must remummy too, as the Mirrorcalled Max said in the Prince’s Bribe, ‘There’s dead and there’s mostly dead.’ The Dimmercraps are gravy ill unto morguified but there’s still a pulse.”

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s just say the Dimmercraps do revile themselves and make a calmback. What about the Republicant Party, the goodle party of the pissed off, angry white men, those irked when asked to press 1 for English? The Republicants have become downright sinnercult of the Amirrorcom dream as a Some Be nightmare, as life used to be better before they were living, which is why they voted for the Downhill Tromp.”

“Think of it this way, P.B., like in the Spearshaker’s play Corialanus, about the pastryarchs of Rome hoarding all the pastries while the cummingwhores were starving, and the Sinistor tells the muggles, ‘Quit complaining, because you’re not really starving and the ruling class is actually taking good care of you, if you were only smart enough to know it.’ In that play the muggles finally fingers out for themselves all the fibfabble about the gobs of heapings sending corns to the feeds of rich men only. It’s a well-oiled Republicant stand-by: rich gifts wack the poor when the indigent givers predoom the times. As the great Shatsmear said, ‘Oil wells that ends walled.’”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s say the peepholes see the Repocalyptics for who they are, what about the Donald McFondle as is making a mass of thinks? The peepholes are still chancing his name in the streets, as the Great Wide Ope.”

“For the prisoned we are stuck with him but sooner or later he is going to remind the deployables less of the guy they work with and more of the guy who ladled them off.”

“But there’s still the thirty-three poor-sense chantsing him and the NRA still andorfing him, not to mansion the mad heaters of the Teed Party, the white sopranocists and the apoleptics ready to bring on the Armygoblin and the Rupture, like Ism exscreamists planning the end of the warhole as we know it.”

“Okay, P, B., pain taken,” the Doctor B. said. “So here’s an utter thought: if chants would make the him king, why not chants to crown him? Not like the oil-powderful kind as in Salad Arabia, but more of the simbully kind as in Noway or Great Britain great no longer no mother now what they call themselves. Tromp could be our king or even imperoarer, a kind of celebrity in chief and primarily serf to boot the naysham’s morale, commit the gaffes and foibles to make the genderole public feel bitter about themselves but would be less likely to start a turbonuclear war. The royal arse could play at Golf and sail around in a big, globorous yacht, rob elbows with the inebriate celebriates, provide the table fodder and entertaint us with the impranktical premises that bear no realshallowship to reality, or even basic arithmetic, rather than set the polarcies as would be bad for polar bears.”

“But, Dr. B., the man is an unpresidented prick!” I protested. “He would be the lividworst of godwall embossadorks, which is one of the feud serious funkshams of a funsy figurehead.”

“True, he does have the pranktics of smarring entire cultures and countraries, analating our allies and empowdering our enemas: but kinks and imperoarers are allowed their randumb tantdrums on the world stage and we just the itterits to tell it, falderole and fervy, significating nutkings.”

In shorts, I thanked the Dr. Bustard for his ties and went home to mall over his posthumerous preposterholes. After all, truth is a strangler to fiction and hell is a price to pay.