Sunday, June 23

Liquid Nitrogen Fantasies from the M.I.L.E. Foundation

From the Group who brought you Endless Chatter in the Ten Gallons of Stardust

“Come on in, the liquid nitrogen is fine.”

Monte Crisco and the Dank Mausoleum of Hot Spit:

(Fluxus Alaska, Spandex Moonlighting Crew, version 9.0003) A scene where the Green Candle sets fire to a bulb of garlic to prove once and for all to the Matrix Maiden that light is neither a particle nor a wave and that the graviton is in fact simply an extension of the afterlife.

Green Candle: Ho, ho, ho…what be this izish?
Matrix Maiden: the tell tale part where you get a motherfucking life.

Frozen in Time:

This old movie was the impetus for many a fore lane chandelier of pure imagination. The scene where that guy weaves a napkin out of an old hammock and glues gingerbread men to the ceiling all while whistling Dixie to the rhythm of the night. And the rhythm made me cry tears of dumb nostalgia for sandman relics.

Putrid by Design, Immaculate by Consumption:

Okay, so as it goes, the end credits for the foster project; “Go and Get Tiger, Tiger!” jackknifed on the red carpet runway leading from here to eternity in the merry, merry afterlife. We walked up the corridor paying particular attention to the throngs of drinking ghosts and foreshortened imps, dancing like so many snowflakes on the desert like puddles of goose liver casserole, also called “Quiche Wellington”, or provincially known as “Bert’s Yummy Blog Pepper Pot”.

Get’cher, Get’cher, One, Two, Three:

Back in Portland we entertained ideas of having breakfast, as it manifested, two slivers of sausage chowder tingling in our midst; you had the melon balls, I had the pumpkin butter. We both had water to drink and agreed that it was fine.

Baron Duck Butter Extracts Revenge From a Bucket of Lukewarm Gelatin, Claiming Reparations for Indentured Servitude During the Crimean and Utilitarian War of 2487:

Not many folk know this, but Buck Rogers was half black. If a black future month were conceivable at this moment in history, there may be a boulevard or street, or park, or school named after him. So quietly into the void, Ranger Three, gently glides like a stone in a glacier, slowly, casually, purposefully and without orientation, past the Telemundo Galaxy, beyond the Wikipedia Cluster, far, far beyond the Land of Forgotten Fairies, into the end of the game, where the Dark Lord Habermas awaits on the frontiers of Frankfurt. Babylonian scores of flocked migrant workers clamor into the ship, each squealing for equal rights, voting opportunities and the freedom of speech. We, that is you and me, we just blister in the quasar pulse.

Notes Taken During the Run of the Black Hole Invitational:

Leonard Valkyrie here, not but chilling in my Speedo fed glee; here at the run of the Black Hole Invitational, where the girls dress like huntsmen and the kids eat free. And it is Raknod, the Developer ahead by eight on the first leg of the roundabout, followed by Norvin, the Terrible and Reelium, the Gnostic. As I sit here and watch the folly hoppers piss on by at the speed of light, I can’t help but wonder why I am here. Is there a purpose for my existence? Is there a god? Does it love me? Do I have a soul? Do trees have souls? And all of a sudden, it is Reelium, the Gnostic overtaken by Beriwove, the Vaginally Shorn by a third leg in the night. Oh, and here is Branyclump, the Portentous in second, by a stroke of unidentifiable flying spryness. When really, I find I don’t care one way or the other if there is a god, if I have a soul, if love is real, or if purpose just means I don’t want to be unhappy.

Quest for Sir Rhymes-a-Lot and his Basket of Eggy Eggy Dreg Dregs, One Shot Boy-ee:

Melvin reins the rest of the elfish dear-dogs, as I make camp. I start a fire with my dark magic breath. “Ernie, where is the spandex?” Melvin asks.
“Near the cat food in the quasi-hamper, your bag. Not mine!”
“Oh, here it is!”
Melvin is such a little shit. I hate him like you wouldn’t believe. I want to kill him in his sleep, stab him in the face, or in the ear, that way he can watch me laugh at him as he bleeds to death in my arms, but fuck if we don’t need a goddamn elf on a magical quest!

I Hold Melvin as He Bleeds from the Mouth, Singing Sweetly “Who am I, What am I, What Will I Be?”

“Put me in the liquid nitrogen Ernie, I am fading…”
“Not a chance fat Melvin, not a fucking chance in hell you little fuck. Who am I, what am I, what will I be…”
“I want to live forever Ernie, I want to live!”
“You are going to be dead forever, forever and more Mevin, forever and more!”

File, save as “Liquid Nitrogen Fantasies”