Spilling the contents...
Fortunately for Donkay, Satie Puzza don't stop, she don't quit. Satie is what some of the oldguard would succintly dub a "get-go", whilst they eat duck pate and sip ginger beer. She became a favourite over at 1430 after her Greyhound Bus/Convention Center tour one summer a while back, whereby the gal, low-and-behold, reported from a dozen or so sadly attended trade show weekends in the American industrial North Middle-West. Among other gems, her sonnet series distinguishing an art from a craft is priceless, and lodged somewhere in Donkay's halls, resting. She has since earliest membership prefered the ways of the coach bus to other methods of getting somewhere.
it dont seem right for them to bring on that clear-paper-wrapped food which kinda looks like a slice of pizza but not and, what's she doing? putting her can of coke on the overhead luggage space? does she even notice? forget it, what's with this chick looking like that G.I. Windchill but could be Blizzard but damnit which one is it, the one who skies everywhere. Jimmy got drunk last night, my last night in town of course, and spent all nite talkin to Kevin and Barb about the alliance between the G.I. team and "that Blanka crew" he kept calling 'em. the one with the red beard, the skier. but i guess it really happend because later, in a softer moment Jimmy's breath slowed and his gruff whisky hoarse protestations simmered to a molassass plea to get in my pants, and when i was just trying to keep him from passing out, i made him explain to me what he had to personally gain from the newly recognized 8 Joe Allies from Capcom Street Fighter II. guess it's just a symbolic brotherhood and the two groups wouldn't ever even engage the same enemy, being that the internationally recognized "enemy of my enemy is my friend" standard is defunct, and presumably Joe never even talked to heads like Dhalsim, so its really a rubber stamp arrangement to boost civilian morale, or so said Jimmy before trailing off and just repeatin the phrase "karate bombs" like ten times until he was snorin. sounded like "carte blanche" by the end. whatever. lookit this chick and her mink helmet, which isn't even connected to that whitewolf three quarter coat piece. she totally forgot the coke. how many layers of clothes is she going to take off, omygod she got a tribal right above her ass crack. this chick will not remember the coke, this is classic. Jimmy read me a poem that had a line about this dude's "trajectory of exquisite proportion" which is just about how i'd describe the placement of this coke can, like two feet behind the chick's boyfriend in the second to last row. this is better than on demand, im in the middle of the last row, the three seated ones with the chick there on my right preoccupied by that seasame looking pizza slice and some white afroed dude against the window playin with the emergency exit handle like he's badd cuz he got some pristine seat, which he did, i'd admit. the bus is about to start and when it lurches forward towards the Bowery the can could do one of somemany promising things. please let it. i want it to fall and roll, sending measured swirling rivulets of soda onto Boyfriend and the many heads in rows ahead of him. a straight fall would suffice, dumping the entire contents all over his rat's nest hipster hair and ginger beard face. but then what is this afroed freak doing now, leaning on me, and in that last moment before the bus rocks forward and back again, before going forward, the afroee is in front of my face looking at the can saying to it, "you are leaving that coke there?" and the fur chick is up and startled so shes saying a couple things at once about eating and forgetting and she grabs it like an instant before it lost its equalibrium and this guy leans back into his space against the window which is getting the sun and looks warm, and hes lookinacting like he didnt even say anything. just when im thru getting bent up because nothin went down and right before i decided to lift this note onta my pad, the dude leans over again and this time looks at me with this angular scarred up face and says real quiet, "Dorn says if you have a name you can be sold." whatever.
it dont seem right for them to bring on that clear-paper-wrapped food which kinda looks like a slice of pizza but not and, what's she doing? putting her can of coke on the overhead luggage space? does she even notice? forget it, what's with this chick looking like that G.I. Windchill but could be Blizzard but damnit which one is it, the one who skies everywhere. Jimmy got drunk last night, my last night in town of course, and spent all nite talkin to Kevin and Barb about the alliance between the G.I. team and "that Blanka crew" he kept calling 'em. the one with the red beard, the skier. but i guess it really happend because later, in a softer moment Jimmy's breath slowed and his gruff whisky hoarse protestations simmered to a molassass plea to get in my pants, and when i was just trying to keep him from passing out, i made him explain to me what he had to personally gain from the newly recognized 8 Joe Allies from Capcom Street Fighter II. guess it's just a symbolic brotherhood and the two groups wouldn't ever even engage the same enemy, being that the internationally recognized "enemy of my enemy is my friend" standard is defunct, and presumably Joe never even talked to heads like Dhalsim, so its really a rubber stamp arrangement to boost civilian morale, or so said Jimmy before trailing off and just repeatin the phrase "karate bombs" like ten times until he was snorin. sounded like "carte blanche" by the end. whatever. lookit this chick and her mink helmet, which isn't even connected to that whitewolf three quarter coat piece. she totally forgot the coke. how many layers of clothes is she going to take off, omygod she got a tribal right above her ass crack. this chick will not remember the coke, this is classic. Jimmy read me a poem that had a line about this dude's "trajectory of exquisite proportion" which is just about how i'd describe the placement of this coke can, like two feet behind the chick's boyfriend in the second to last row. this is better than on demand, im in the middle of the last row, the three seated ones with the chick there on my right preoccupied by that seasame looking pizza slice and some white afroed dude against the window playin with the emergency exit handle like he's badd cuz he got some pristine seat, which he did, i'd admit. the bus is about to start and when it lurches forward towards the Bowery the can could do one of somemany promising things. please let it. i want it to fall and roll, sending measured swirling rivulets of soda onto Boyfriend and the many heads in rows ahead of him. a straight fall would suffice, dumping the entire contents all over his rat's nest hipster hair and ginger beard face. but then what is this afroed freak doing now, leaning on me, and in that last moment before the bus rocks forward and back again, before going forward, the afroee is in front of my face looking at the can saying to it, "you are leaving that coke there?" and the fur chick is up and startled so shes saying a couple things at once about eating and forgetting and she grabs it like an instant before it lost its equalibrium and this guy leans back into his space against the window which is getting the sun and looks warm, and hes lookinacting like he didnt even say anything. just when im thru getting bent up because nothin went down and right before i decided to lift this note onta my pad, the dude leans over again and this time looks at me with this angular scarred up face and says real quiet, "Dorn says if you have a name you can be sold." whatever.
posted by M.N.V.L. Local 1430 at 5:36 PM
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