Friday, January 27, 2012

Cocaine Beach Party A Go-Go

The damned souls of landlubbers long since drowned or the crocodile tears of a constipated clown dominated monochrome dreams of histrionic granny vaginal ice cream, vistas of venereal violas with arcane areolas forced my recall of a mermaid most merry in her manic mirth after escaping my seaweed lasso in the Sea of Sargasso.

I had fallen in love with this mysterious maiden of sexual gerrymandering and gleeful cocaine pandering and yet later discovered she worked on commission, a necessary omission in a relationship shadowed by a phantom Stasi secret police circus car trailing our every move amongst the vacuous volcanic vulvas of Tuvalu.

The East German patrolwagen stalked our romantic rhapsodies with succubi synchronicities, and I was alerted to wider conspiracies via the Conchas Brujas of the All-Seeing Metaphysical House - waxen witches projecting the future hellions of Raelians and rebellions of mammalians anticipated the limp wrists of vicar's trysts or ovarian cysts of radioactive Bikini Atoll mist.

Via instructional insurrection my mermaid had gained 9 credits within the Soviet strumpet spy school of my former ally and forever nemesis - the Lisping Persian. I later learned that in the spring of 1982 a detailed list of my sexual appetites had been surrendered to nations of a Stalinistic nature and yet I bandied a devious deception to these children of the lesser Lenin, even as the lurid details of my horrific happenstances in Hanoi would be entirely commercial for these would-be cretins.

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