Thursday, August 26, 2010

You Have Blogereth All Over Mine Borrowsome Sward

You have bloggerethed and bloggeresced over my grave for the last time. My gravennness bides its time and my sympathies with corbies will not vanish. Despite your evil attempts to make this soeth. I know you and your furbelow kind. I know you induce labor in mendicant marsupials for kicks...sometimes when you think nobody's watching. You pretend to be a Lamaze instructor too. You have fooled the Koreans and the Norwegians into believing you are Keanu Matrix's reflexologist. And I know all about that bullshit Miracle of the Whispering Sporkscrew. I can't believe you actually charge people to see that and had that inserted into the Michelin guide. That ridiculous cave lighting. That mummifed poodle and that homeless guy you hired to play "The Human Excrescence." I can't help it that your kindergarten graduating class voted you "Most Likely to Circus Geek Exes in a Spermicane." I now caveman a job. Surprised? No I'm not lying. If you must know, I direct parachute traffic in dreams. I work in one of the busiest dream cloverleafs. The one over by the new Minatorium. Jealous much? Oh why don't you go eat some more maneth chowderth. If you came and surprised me while I was working I might not call the Arborists on you. I said might. This poem isn't about you at all. It's about the handsome lawnmower of the French Revolution. Who I'm sleeping and centrifuging with now. I just destroyed you with that last sentence, didn't I? Well not even Little Debbie sells her apple bandersnootch for a dollar anymore. How long did you think I would wait for your krumpetty zero calorie frumptiousness? Florever?

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