Friday, March 31, 2006

LEPRECHAUN LUNACY

"Hit it," said Lulu, right before the power cable electrocuted James' brand new Raybans.

As Rex punched the cow the first time, his hand began to bleed. By the seventy-second brutal swat, his hand was marrow pulp scattering in the wind. The three of them sat and had a smoke while the beast took its revenge on Pram, who had been the one to warn, "Cattle will turn on you if worked too hard. Buffalo are different, they'll take anything like a docile Stalinist." How Rex wished he had picked on a buffalo.

But what was done was done. He could sense it would be considerably late by the time the duel coloured beast finally fell to its side, its life force spent by the collaborative of a man-child with excessive testosterone levels and a girl whose only means of amusement centred on the death of bovine entities through use of excessive force.

"I never liked those shades anyway," said James, his shirt scorched and reaking of fried bacon.

"Oh...My...God!" screamed Pram, hesitantly and with dramatic pause at first, since she wasn't basing what she saw on anything resembling concrete evidence. "Is that a group of homophobic cacti or am I just suffering peyote withdrawal again?"

"Neither," said James. "You've lost too much blood. Just kill the beast, do him in. Kill the beast. Do him in. Kill the beast. Do him in." Soon enough Lulu and Rex joined the Fly-Lord chant, slow at first, then a medium stroke. Within minutes it was a fevered pitch and soon after that they all shared Pram's vision.

"It's cathartic, man," sighed Pram. "No, it isn't," contradicted James. "You're on the verge of death and undoubtedly seeing shit that isn't real, like Geoffrey Dahmer over there." " Who invented him to this sitting?" "Who doesn't know how quotes go?"

Pram, Lulu and Rex looked to where James was pointing. The goat which James was pointing to was dining on blades of grass at the time of the accusation.

"James?" enquired Lulu. "Are you all right?"

"We're all going to die!" offered James as he unzipped his pants.

The shared vision was taking a turn for the worse for Pram when she saw the size of James' wang chung; an offputting three feet of steel with a hook at the end.

"You can ring my bell anyday," offered Rex with a smerk.

At that moment, as the goat began its charge towards the quartet, the heavens opened up and dropped bloody tears of uncertainty onto the impending fracas. The normally surefooted mountain goat slipped on the bloodrain and impailed himself on the homophobic cacti as Daumer licked his lips and scratched his bum. Rex had stood all he could stand and was sitting in the corner tattooing Popeye just above his bizarre appendage.

"Is there no escape from this lunacy?" asked Lulu with a sigh and a sip of champagne.

Juggling street performing kittens, Rex wept at the precocious nature of humanity's slide down a bottomless paper cup of mediocrity. Expecting an exclamation point in the form of a momentous, solid wall of excrement to arrive at any moment, Rex concluded the potency of the drugs was beginning to fade.

"Hey, buddy," Rex said to the goat.

"What in the name of the sacred hellish father's perky red eyes do you want?" the goat demanded in response to Rex's advances.

"Cigarettes, nitrogen, a chocolate Easter bunny's ear, and seven bottles of Muskoka cream ale," said Rex, reminding the goat of his ex-sister-in-law's deadbeat pool cleaner's chinchilla cat. "And I need some help juggling these kittens. I'm afraid I'll drop one."

The goat looked at Rex. The goat followed the flying kittens as they moved from Rex's hands into the air. Disgusted, the goat backed up to rush Rex with a head butt. One of the kittens landed on Rex's head. As the kitten's tiny claws sank into his bald pate, he screamed with pain. The goat stopped, he was laughing too hard to get the muscle tenseness needed to knock Rex over.

Then the phone, which had been resting on a stool in a central part of the heather, rang. Rex eyed it suspiciously, expecting another tricky-dicky situation to eventuate. His giant strides took him with great purpose towards the phone.

"What!" he said into the 1940s model mouthpiece, distracted in his periphery by a glimpse of the goat stuffing three kittens into its mouth.

"You are killin uss-all!" said the voice on the phone in a thick Irish accent.

Confused, Rex popped another pill. Nothing seemed as ordinary as a misguided space module consuming carbon paper copiously. Or did it? Rex drop-kicked the phone and wrestled the goat to the ground, put it in a full nelson, and begged it to beg for mercy. The goat responded with an act of ingenius trickery: it played dead, dangling its lifeless tongue from within its bleak coloured lips while emitting an eerie sound which resonated from deep within the bowels of its sacrilegious chest cavity. It sounded not too dissimilar to a jaded bleat, extended in synchronicity by a high-pitched flapping of its anus that greeted Rex at the base of the nose, which instantly disintegrated into pixels aligned too far to the left. The asynchroneous vibrations probably would have killed Rex on the spot had James not speared the goat with his 3 foot hooked appendage. [As it turned out, Rex would outlive them all and not die until a 43-hour absynthe binge did him in at a Shanghai karaoke bar after one too many Celine Dion numbers.]

For James and Pram, the celebration ended all too early when the internal bleeding in the cow's brain forced its head to explode, saturating each member of god's numerous races with a thick layer of red waste product that an endless numbered measurement of anti-stain remover couldn't handle.

"That's a great big fucking mess we're in," sang Lulu, wiping numerous substances from her modelesque facial features, ably backed by the lads and the bleeting goat. The cow outtards proved astonishingly useful when the hooded clansmen arrived, and in retrospect contributed the lion's share to eventual world peace.

11 Comments:

Blogger Chris Benjamin said...

Andy your blog disappeared right after I linked to it. Did I accidentally kill you?

5:07 AM  
Blogger Kaufman said...

It is but a mere flesh wound, comrade. Pass the vodka.

9:25 AM  
Blogger Chris Benjamin said...

where do ya want it?

10:32 AM  
Blogger Chris Benjamin said...

morri if he barred you he barred me too, and i need my fix.

2:50 AM  
Blogger Kaufman said...

OMM: I would never bar a fellow Five Word Storian or founder of a cult. That, dear sir, is simply not my style.

My site 'dropped out' for a day or so for reasons unknown to me. I'm guessing if you refresh your cache, you'll have it back on radar again.

P.S. I don't have the technical know-how to bar anyone. If I did, N-Sync would've been at the top of the list long ago.

1:13 PM  
Blogger Chris Benjamin said...

i would ban the entire boyband genre.

9:51 AM  
Blogger Chris Benjamin said...

okay where'd all the slackinators go?

3:58 AM  
Blogger Kaufman said...

I'm on my way!

2:54 PM  
Blogger Kaufman said...

Man, that felt good. Let's rock!

6:18 PM  
Blogger Chris Benjamin said...

Thanks for changing my to's to too's, Andy.

4:09 AM  
Blogger Kaufman said...

No problemo.

I rarely venture beyond correcting misspelt two-lettered words.

9:10 AM  

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