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Does anyone remember free association writing from high school Creative Writing classes? You know, where you just write whatever comes into your head without thinking about it? I never understood the exercise whatsoever -- I understood that it was supposed to stimulate your creativity, but frankly brainstorming for me always did a better job of that.
Anyway, a co-worker at one of my previous jobs was a huge fan of free association writing, but he would polish what he wrote afterwards.
Yeah, I know.
Anyway, he told me I should try it. I did (without the polishing -- though I think I did run spell check on it). The result is as bizarre as anything I've posted yet. It is pretty amusing, but it's also worthless shit (unlike the other pearls and gems I've posted). Here it is.
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It was on a Tuesday or was it the doormat with the forklift that killed him? I can’t remember, momma, but that doesn’t mean the aardvark is service pepsi. Now that we have it, shall we use it or then what? I couldn’t tell the moon, but that’s when they moved to Madagascar.
Meanwhile, if they seem to be there, I can show you all the chickens with their lips cut from the shoelace motorcycle cigarbox toe nail me to that cross my oh my.
What’s what the by the belt but borgas barga borga borga.
Rollo. That’s right. Rollorink. Rink a dink a do.
The problem is that the hands don’t go as fast as the brain does, so doe, a dear, oh dear. My dear. You have always been there for me, little lemon drop. You and the lamp post. That’s when I use it. Oh yeah.
So this is what it’s like to use the shoes and pay your dues. Well I can’t tell you what to do but that’s ok, you know the news. Everybody dance. Everybnody bondy bondy. Wow.
So these guys walk in and take the transmission out of the car, and that’s when the loose change in the seats flew up and started attacking everybody. Aunt Maryann and I just sat back and laughed, but mostly because Aunt Maryann has no nose and it makes her look just like a dream I once didn’t have.
And when the zen masters come you will find me filing off the wombats from the ship’s hull, much like barnacles, because that’s what they do. Attach themselves to the hull and suckle there, draining the life out of every living thing in the Franklin Mint.
Did I ever tell the children what to do with the badger meat that has been sitting in the freezer for about seven hours? Does it really matter? Does Aunt Maryann want some? Can she use it for that casserole that she keeps telling everyone that she’s discovered can cure the common or even the rarest of colds? What’s the rarest cold? What’s the coldest rear? Would it be a polar bear? Would it be a polar beer? Bipolar bipeds and pinapeds and manatees as they caper about in a soulless sea of lunch?
God, is it lunch already?
If it was, what would that matter to God? Isn’t He supposed to understand and all that? I mean, when the time runs out, where will we all be? Eating lunch? Is it part of Aunt Maryann’s casserole? Or does this have no connection whatsoever?
There’s got to be another way. A way and a mean. I mean it. And that’s so mean of you to think it. No really. I’ve got pictures.
Snuff and the Poodles get to have Kellog’s Frosted Meuller Wheats
But meanwhile, while the while away the hours and hours and yours and mines of minutes. Meanwhile, there seemed to be a long protrusion coming out of the longest field of soda that ever existed on Pluto. That was why we should show up wearing nothing except when your fingers fly off and zoop around the room feeling like they belong to some major motion picture. They’ll enter the field then, those little fingers, and then we’ll be sorry.
It was at this point the shoesalesman danced inside a hooka shaped much like my Aunt Maryann used to bake cookies. And in these cookies were pieces of other cookies. And eventually, we told the story of Franklin, and it went like this:
This Is Frank’s Story
Hello. My name is Frank. I live on my street. It is a nice street. I live there because it is nice. There are dogs on my street. Some of them are alive. Some of them wag their tails at me and bark and they try to rub their bellies on my leg.
So what was that about? Well, I’ll tell you. There was this shoe, see, and he saw a man, and the man saw the show, and that was when they all became who they are. Tasting much better and feeling like a slide trombone in a toenail factory.
All the publishers saw the potential in the factory, and so they went out into the ice cream and sold their frisbees.
And Aunt Maryann came crawling into the box, and we sat there, staring at that little piece of lint as it sang arias about Charles Foster Kane, who was dead and fictional, but we didn’t tell the lint because the aria was so pretty and we didn’t have the heart to tell it that all the Chinese checkers had gone to sleep all over the world until the one day when they would rise up and ride the insurance policy for all it was worth.
When the Morristown bus pulled out of the driveway, Gerald thought to himself. And when he thought to himself, that’s when everyone else got out of the way, because pretty soon, Gerald would explode, leaving bloody gobbets of flesh and yogurt sprayed all over the canopy of mother-in-laws who cling to their belief in the judicial system.
Can you say that? How about the other one? Well, then, see if you can. I thought so.
“I’ve lost my contact,” thought Sheila as she sat on the shelf, waiting for someone to help her down. But the only thing that came along was a little black-widow spider, and the spider spun a web of lies that Sheila was able to decypher, because she remembered to wear her watch. Then Sheila showed us how her name could easily become Shield, and that’s exactly what she did. Became a shield of iron and yarn and all good things come to an end.
Depression. Treat it. Defeat it.
Anna, Graham, and Trevor walked into the shoestore, selling baby bears and mortifying all the blue-haired women who preferred mud to salad bars. The salad bars took a fence to this, and even the mastur gate, which they did, grossing out the one hundred and forty four who smelled like the finest cheeses.
Go ask Alice when she was just as small.
I understand that your dog kennel was inducted into the Hall of Fame, but why they would award a piece of plastic for goring that bull like it was just a little bitty baby in the prime of the directive. And we violated that directive, and in fact the cast and crew showed us just how long they could dance into the best freezer in all the little toejam marmalade spoonfed farmfed love boxes of tuna carrousel cigarettes.
“Meat loaf monkey and tone deaf junkie
Spangled like a sun.
Too many tune baby spoon lady goon daddy
all in a sesame seed bun.”
Was the poem that Lester kept humming to his grandmother, who really couldn’t care less, but then again, she was getting old and kettle was boiling and all the fish were drying in the sunflower-baked bread of the really huge sumo wrestler. Hey, that almost made sense!
General is frank, and frank is generally specific, but when his binoculars are out, there is going to be trouble, buddy! I mean it this time! You leave those alone or I’m calling all the weasels in the classroom. Dukes of Hazzard and all that. And that was whey and curds, who attacked all the zulus, but we won, because that’s what we do. Show off in front of all the bottle city of Kandor.
Buzz Aldrin would have thought so.
Apparently you don’t remember the show that they showed, and show nuf, they did. Shower us we need it bad, momma! And I don’t mean cow, I mean Mr. Mustard. Sleepy little woofnut, where did you go? Down to the slabba flabba New Mexico. Hey, I’m Bob Dylan.
You really shouldn’t let me do this.
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