The Trip to Boola’s Fart
Was Lead by a Ridiculard
Followed by a Pack of Rampastakas

“Bring me the Bu,” screeched the leading Nomad as he turned to face the groupoff.  “We have a ninety mile tray left in the fanty to scrape before a fortnight in the pants-by-numbers of this Ralphmaniac.”

The Bu butted in, “Lest we forgive, on this day in 19-inch tires, as I skidded past my window, please don’t mention the redness of my bum, ‘twas a sight to be forklosured, but too the point now.  I scraped my knee on the floor so bad I got a Blue Fork.”

“How are you going to pay for it,” you ask?

“I have to run away to Mexico,” I return, the jacket with wholly pockets mammoth.

Nomrad grabs the horn and yells imbecilically, “And then I got a Red Spark.  To prove it we shall now present the illusion of ushering in the nuns.  They come from the back of your shower curtain in the twinkle of an eyeliner.  I baked the cast iron.  Thoust mayn’t pigeon me into a deal I can’t bank out of, take me for a funk my laundry up the axiom of our times, or furtherly, disallow us to breathe clean air once again.”

“By the blasting of dogs!,” The Bu continued, “I cannot believe your pastry grin is still left on the cupboard beside the microscope.  How are we going to close the sailboat with all those tits hanging around the vestibule?”

I’m telling you, “Go run home and smoke your dog.  I’ll be hearing from you in an hour later they jumped from the plane with parachutes as I crashed my Nintendo 64 dollar question of rent in arrears, past due by nature of your morning sickness.”

A younger burst into the circle, exclaiming, “I’m leg.  Imagine me running in the supermarket, trying to kick your mother as you swim in the bulk popcorno movie section by sticking his head in from the trees of your back tractor pocket.”

Firstoff, remember how this all bega.N.there was a boy who was in jail because he was five years old.  And he wrote umbungulant sentences on his noteboots so his teacher sent him to jail.  Too bad.  Now he’s got the noBell prize for loitering, he guards the ancient gourd of Lamb-Hill and the guitars build diapers around themselves to avoid his tantrumming percussion ensembles of M.

The Nomard continued reading in proclamation:
“In Shepard Hall there will be his awakening ceremonial headdress as he lampoons upon a shooting pipe organism, blasting across the auditorium of grievances, turn left and it’s the first door on your wife.”

I warned you,
“Ignore the dangers of Telegision, which is beheaded over at the TV factories after they steak the programming.  It is as the giblets art from a chicken.  It slops horizonly about the floor until the janitors come and slurp it up, but now in this one-tone offertory, these wonderfall collectable lovely doll houses can be yourn for only a small donation of cornfare, to be left on the motor-axle of your grandmother’s gigantormonius dentures.”

I continued endlessly,
”Please call this rubber stopper your home as you free the lasers on the screen.  If you have a rabbit card, then telus the number and we’ll send it through your fencing suit understair before the laundry man comes to rape your trees.  It’s that supple, just pre-seal the self-assassinating undrenched asylinator and the dream can be yarn, cola, or fired for lunging at me with his telephone corpse, accusing me of billing his tidal wave in the sandwich.”

With passion as I breathe life into the myth, you remember, “bring my castles into your painted osmosis, and I will imagine sitting on the sand in your evening benches by a shady path under the left turn of a wind.”

The Bu spoke, “we can walk near home through tired scenes from old movies and smell some coffee brown before tomorrow morning.  But I’z not worried about the contract.  Let me breathe in a cusp of adventure to be purched on a chef’s knife, high above the wurthing boat and the churly sea.”

After this incessant sporadic drone they awake to the sound of bowling thunder as The Bu sputters and shouts, “I’m tasty and the morning is butting me off the balcony, landing on the trampoline of your undertown and my eyelashes whip your lingerie, violently, passionately and full of porridge.”

“Oh the pain and the lump,” mocks Normand.

The Bu screams under neck veins slopping, “I can opener for a break in my thoughts were busy signaling you to land early as the willpower swept me off my feats of indentation.”

And so they foresaw it: ghosts monsterbating cereal in your walkman when you told them to jump in the balloons for a good time magazine is suing the presidential champignon of Avery-Fisherman’s friend who was spotted impersonating as a sasquatch off in the north sometime before sundowners.

“So go call your father and tell him I’ve cooked the pig and he should come in and wallpaper the ham.”  Agonizingly he continued muttering for what seemed a foreskin, “my fingers are getting fatter than carrots in the mattress that pokes your back like a leather toilet in a paper hat.”

Board to tears they spun our necks in the spokes of a unicycle written by the police manta-ray that was sending out rubber tickets to times-square and yanking arcane around my neck, as I told him I was from Catharsis Parkway.

The Bu of Normad began the requests, “Is there a pumpkin on the house? I’ve got tangerine and need co-operation from 7-11 of you if we are to sort out all these parrot cards and reshingle the kitchenette VCR.  I’m starting to leak a little charade or two from my backwash, maybe you should flip your disc in here and smile backwards on the radio.”

There is a maiden present.  Do not raise your election to her whine.  She’s sleeping.  She turns gently as if greeting her fucking mother in-law who just burned the thanksgiving turnkey operation.  She’s sleeping and her hands.  Her hands hold mine ever so gently.  She turns her face as if I was staring at a raving jack-o-lantern scathing and fucking the masquerading puppets like a barfing lizard that just ate the terrorists of Arizona.

With that the party drank you very Dutch and Irish under the tables have burned on their quest for bold eagerlies hoping without voodoo preclusion or I have the audacity to reach for the evercleansing fart.