nom nom nom
what’s hiding in my spaghetti squash?
Warning: This Milk Has Not Been Pasteurized
Today I tried a new method of extracting the parasite that resides in my intestine. Warm milk and a pencil!
Has anyone tried this trick? You simply heat some milk (raw milk is best, raw goats’ milk is better than best) and sharpen a No. 2 pencil. Hold the milk, in a shallow bowl, as close to your mouth as you can. At the same time, with your other hand, hold the pencil with the lead side hovering over the surface of the milk. Your worm’s scolex (head) should appear, bobbing like one of Popeye’s Goons, and make its way around your uvula to rest for a moment at the base of your tongue. When it spots the warm milk, it will spring forth from your jaws like the beasts from Tremors.
You must act quickly. Put down the milk. Wrap the worm around your No. 2, coiling at least four inches of its body around your implement, and yank.
I found the feeling to be quite satisfying, like listening to Das Rheingold while drinking gallons of Earl Grey.
bromeliad
Eden pleasure from love! One and only true manhood. Always be ready. Power up Lovegun. And what did I tell you? Human Growth Gormone helps in most heavy cases. All he does is to sit in the water. I’m a-weary of my life. Take the blue pilule and she will show you how far the rabbit hole goes. Vote results are fake. Durable woody in pants! Make her dream of you avery day and night. Your rod will be faultless weapon. Focus onn the Skin, Not thhe sex.
Get pretty strong bone-on! Get Woodstock Hippie arousal. Stay like a bold cliff! Check please! old butte new. Dbln. W. K. O. O. Hear? By the mausolime wall. Fimfim fimfim. of yore do all bold floras of the field to their shyfaun lovers say only: blow the whole of the half of the hat of lipoleums off of the top of the bouts of Hebear and Hairyman the cornflowers have been staying at Ballymun. His reasons, peer yuthner in yondmist. Whooth? His clay feet, swarded in lute is all long. For whole the world to see.
a friendly hello to your pal ellen!
i am playing with my all girl band, THE CHARCOAL BRIQUETTES, at “the mean tagine” in oslo, norway, on Saturday. please come say hello!
Drink of me
Mosquitoes are entering my room at night. Finding the bites in the morning is bittersweet—sweet because they make funny constellations (starfruit, nautilus, crepe), bitter because, well, they ITCH! I like to scratch them just to the point of rawness before blood starts to appear: maximum pattern visibility and, though it is supplanted by stinging pain, relief from the nagging itch.
How I Spent My Summer Vacation, Items 3 - 13
#3. I participated in a war waged between two opposing ant colonies in grandmother’s yard by feeding the smaller colony dripping chunks of papaya, daily, until the ants reached the size of honey bees.
#4. I made my own horchata out of a song my mother hums while she does laundry!
#5. Knit a sock, but accidentally deleted it.
#6. Helped the homeless by actively pitying them.
#7. I courted a young man from Samoa who was in town on an extended layover. One night, I wrapped him in cashmere and beat him with a club while we watched Juliet of the Spirits.
#8. I made a pavlova out of Diet 7-Up, but I didn’t eat it, because I don’t do diet.
#9. Befriended a cat, but found out he wasn’t a real cat.
#10. Determined how I feel about anchovies.
#11. Changed my mind on three occasions: once, I thought it wise to order the grilled cheese but later decided that I would prefer a grilled cheese with bacon; next, I was going to take a nap, but had a coffee instead; lastly, I kept the baby.
#12. Changed my sheets from pima cotton to organic milk proteins.
#13. Replaced my shampoo and conditioner with kittens and marshmallows.
The time has come again for my great chum Claudette and I to venture out into the desert, as we do every year on the 25th day of July, take peyote, and talk about the state of our immortal souls.
Last year’s venture was little more than a formality, as our friendship had fallen on hard times due to a spat over the last pair of fingerless gloves at our local thrift store (Arsenic and Old Lace in Springwood). Claudette had snatched them out of my delicate grip while in the queue that argyled its way to the register; I let out a whispered exclamation of protest, but Claudette merely held up her left hand. The missing tip of her index finger, which I had bitten off during a particularly heated argument of ours in grade five, served as a final ruling. The gloves would belong to Claudette. But what of my loyalty?
Tense, angry, we readied ourselves for a three-day car trip to Angostura Park, armed with all of the missives of our youth and a tape of every Francoise Hardy recording on record. We slipped into Claudette’s ancient Peugeot. I swept my cardigan into a ball and leaned my face against its soft bulge. Claudette stewed as she drove, like a prune in the finest brandy.
We arrived in Angostura as the sky neared its dusky consummation. Wordlessly, we worked at erecting our wigwam, hammering and nailing and creating a bed for the African violets we’d brought. I noticed a small blister on my palm. Claudette’s paws, white as the underbelly of the Persian cat at the Chinese apothecary, were unmarred due to her luxurious gloves (her fingers remained free, unburdened by cloth).
“Let’s not get sloppy,” I murmured, as Claudette missed a stake with her hammer, thwacking the dry earth.
“I’m sorry, it’s just hard with four and three-quarters fingers on this hand,” she responded, and I retreated into my dark mental loneliness, like a lion who slips on the skin of a seal and parades down west fourth street.
That night we lay by the fire, side by side. The evening’s stark chill invaded our bones, and the peyote made the stars into little mouths who lip-synched to Beatles’ songs. I felt honesty creep into my heart, like the long and unwelcome finger of a school superintendent.
“Claudette,” I intoned.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, and stood up abruptly. She tottered into the shadows, arms aloft, and I followed her. She collapsed behind the wigwam and started vomiting, but the vomit was not the usual liquid human refuse. No, she threw up a potpourri of peonies, honeysuckle, chewing tobacco, eucalyptus bark, star anise. I held her hair.
“Claudette, that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I said, and we drifted off to sleep right there on the hard, packed sand.
