central maintenance has me in the pacific office this week, gotta change the ink cartridges in all the squids. it's a huge job but the benefits are alright; free room and board, plus they let me touch the Prophet Octopus who keeps correctly predicting the precise time and date of celebrity deaths

my large adult son wields the stout lips of a concert trombonist. our city, upon condemning a building, employs him to kiss it into dust. every earthly smooch digs a quarry, every peck on the cheek a gouge in the fabric of our reality. once saw the boy kiss a ostrich into a meatball. it haunts me

they're rehydrating me tomorrow, raisin-into-a-grape kinda situation. apparently we're pretty much dessicated compared to our naturally intended wet/meat ratio - every single person on earth, yeah. no one even knows what a fully hydrated man would be capable of, but... shit. it's a new day, brother.

can't open this jar with my sickly little arms. if they could, they would gasp in the tones of a mourning dove. i need thunderous arms; limbs that would roar with the inevitability of waterfalls, the primal scream of a dying star. jorking it with these arms must rip my whole entire shit clean off,

i've managed to capture the moment. i hope my portrayal of allisson and their sneezed up guy is satisfactory

twelve donkeys sputter and clank, belching greasy steam as hoove-wheels grind the cobblestones. such beasts are well sought-after, entire convoys could run kegheads of milker dew across the saltplains and back without spilling a drop. 'milker dew' comes from dads; it's important you understand this,

seamlessly re-integrating into the bsky ecosystem after spending 3 weeks faking infancy and a terminal diagnosis of waterslide ass. the Make A Wish foundation granted me a most intimate wish; to boil dr phil alive in molten caramel, to graze upon his sweetened fibres. cash me outside, howbout dat

our interview continued; "a salad can be a man," she mutters, barely above a whisper. "a salad can be two men. two lithe twinks kissing in a bathtub, maybe with a light lemon vinaigrette..." she trailed off, lapsing into a contemplative silence

selective husbandry has allowed us to finally breed the ideal worm; perfectly spherical and plump as a plum. instead of dirt it burrows through the medium of your consciousness, consuming the omnipresent darkness within and expelling only pure, euphoric thought. it makes a honk noise when squeezed,

oouuggh wish i ain't never ate that lay bee bo or whatsit, feelin real strange. y'all see fingers in the ice? tendrils that ain't quite flesh, clawing through the glacial plane of space that keeps our reality from the next? i hear em scratching at the walls, only i'm outside and there ain't no walls

at the supermarket acknowledging prime cuts. hello rib eye, you are seen. tenderloin? namaste, i feel you. really. hey rib rack, looking good brother! ohhh, new york strip? better than old york strip, y'know what i'm saying haha up top big fella. i will piece you together and build a new husband,

caught me one of them lay boo boos y'all been talkin bout by the grain silo, fella was gnawin his way inside like a tick. did the critter up with some butter and old bay, tell you what you cityfolk are on to something. only thing is i can hear the eternal chorus of night now, never dims. never slows

they're building spires now. millions of twisted, concrete spearheads, thrusting into the sky like an assault on god itself. maybe some hubristic manifestation of strength? we pose our questions but receive only silence, an amphibian blink if we're lucky. the toads' spires eclipse our largest cities

mutual msaturday; my large adult son is looking for love! if you have large adult offspring or are yourself a large adult offspring, please list their/your qualities and stats below, along with a proposed dowry. gender is irrelevant! may your proposed union strengthen both of our houses!

my large adult son doesn't have a collapse depth. pressures at 1,000 times sea level are nothing to him, he just smiles and clicks his teeth. the navy are filling him with their smallest divers to go map a trench or something, he's a grown boy now so it's none of my business. i miss his mother

we have taught lizards' blood to defy newton's law of viscosity; any impact is met with turgid vascular ichor and iron resolve. a humble skink becomes a bulletproof god. why do this? foolish to ask. why does the wind blow fluted melodies across dead tree hollows, why does a rainbow capture the heart

stinky little goblin, where do you go when the seasons change? we could dance in the rain or twirl through rust-coloured piles of autumn leaves together, but you only tickle my sleeping feet in spring. every morning i awaken to the electric sensation, every morning my giggles send you scuttling away

ranch troubles, hoss. runnin outta helium for the sheepdogs, can't rustle up clouds without floatgas. grounded dog won't hunt, y'know how it is. shipment from luna's been delayed, alls i know is them AgriTech sunsabitches are chokin us out on purpose. we gotta get these doggies in the air hoss, asap

9/10 dentists can't be wrong. do you understand? those who lived in disbelief, spurning the wisdom of the 9/10 dentists, where are they now? long-pig iron for the flesh forges, repurposed for the 9/10 dentists' vision. speak not of the 10th; there is only understanding. 9/10 dentists can't be wrong

sire, the goblin king has succumbed to a most rancid madness! every diplomatic envoy we send is boiled in molten salt, every gift returned drenched in sun-soured blood. the sands below his kingdom are rich in powdered sugar, the very sugar we need for our Festival Of Creams! how should we proceed?

there are a thousand things that go through your mind at the moment of impact; last of which is the steering wheel. first? the gentlest thoughts. home, family, love. then come the visions, flashes of a well-lived past. then come the machine elves. they've weighed your heart and found you wanting

a cacophony of clinking and clanking echoes across the city, accompanied by the fortifying scent of fresh-brewed coffee. the skeletons have discovered cafe culture, they can't get enough! they lounge in latte vats, soaking to the marrow; emerging faster and wetter than before. what are they planning

my large adult son isn't legally allowed within 100 meters of a zoo. not for freaky reasons, the poor boy simply emits a heady pheromonal cocktail that causes lizards to lactate. birds too, also snakes and fish of the genus anomalops. it makes the chimps' lips plump and fattens the eels. marvelous

oh god oh fuck i'm in so much trouble

day, night, both alien concepts to those who dwell abyssopelagic. mcdonalds 'breakfast' holds no meaning to a pelican eel, a snailfish will never know there are separate menus that change over with the sun's passage! bring them all to the Surface. let them understand the hash brown, the big Mac

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my large adult son keeps drinking moss scented cream from tubes labeled simply 'boose thickener'. it has no effect on him, however every night following his quaffing of a tube brings heavier and heavier dreams. sometimes i wake completely flat, crushed thin as paper under the sheer weight of them

do you see the wires beneath your skin? they twist and pulse and pulse and twist, obscured by your corporeal rind and yet, you see them, don't you? they can't see You. in the business we call this The Advantage. you hold it over the wires; they cower, afraid of the drying light. will you show mercy?

umami flakes mound at her feet, a hill growing with every fevered mandolin swipe. curled wisps of fish fall like salted snow, the fragrant drift now up to her knees, then waist, then shoulders. the grating continues with fresh zeal as her figure is consumed by the mountain, entombed in katsuobushi

every time you post they flagellate the Sacred Hog who resides within the Earth's core. their exquisite agonies power our celestial journey across the sea of stars, their tears refresh our ancient seas. we are omelas; ignorant of The Hog and driven to post, fat off the milk of its eternal tragedy

c: i will not eat them, sam-i-am, i will not eat green eggs and ham s: i respect your choice here sir but man, remember who saved your ass in 'nam? you will eat green eggs and ham or i'll tell the hague what you did in khe sanh c: jesus christ

when tickled my large adult son grows salty, crystalline spikes. these protrusions are made of a material that achieves superconductivity at up to 40°c, making it the most valuable substance on earth. it's a burden, but fending off Big Tech kill squads has brought us closer together than ever before

they're rehydrating me with extreme prejudice tomorrow. life-giving fluid will gush from my waterlogged pores; every orifice a geyser, every spoken word a wave, every thought a ripple in this overflowing font of wet-blessed flooded flesh. an aquarium made meat, a monument moist. jealousy professor

when both wolves inside me died, the deer began to flourish. left unchecked, all flora consumed, starvation took the herd. cascading failure has driven my spiritual ecosystem to total collapse. i cough up their bones and add them to my Bone Man; a skeletal golem built to generate shareholder value,

sometimes we find love, sometimes we find purpose; sometimes they are one and the same. i'd like to find both, but Broban the Day Eater cruelly consumes every day where i succeed. precious moments are swilled from the river of time, hydration to enervate his next act of gluttonous chrono-erasure

hideo kojima has given birth to the world's first strand-type baby. it is solid gold and brays like the most vital of my duke's prized bulls, resplendent and smooth. while the implications for life as we know it are so far unknown, we believe they will be as fantastic as they are strange

my large adult son has discovered tinctures. day and night he dissolves the world around him, concentrating aspects and elements in ethanol with feverish zeal. little men, tiny minerals, exotic spices from worlds both old and new, all are fuel for the tyrant of tinctures. he tinctured a whole bee!

chat is it over? when the final penny drops, the buck stops and all our debts are settled, when a culminating climax calls the final curtain, chat, is it over? last drink, last stop, last chance chat; the sun sets on empire and sunsets, the marching band swallows their instruments, chat. is it over?

there's a lizard in my yard with a penchant for expired soporifics. every time they pop a musty ambien i say they're playing russian roulette with god, they just laugh and smile. sometimes they'll sleep for a week straight out there, sometimes they get real sick. i've learned to accept it, mostly

spotify has found the sound of the summer, they've brought forth the banger that will unlock the sun. intrigued, you click through. it's soft at first, swelling with every new choral member - all repeating the singlesame sentiment; we love you. we forgive you. come home. all the voices are your own.

my large adult son hovers nearby, silicate wings humming with the strain. circuits spark and chirp, wire and sinew, steel and flesh; born of both god and man, life at its apex. the printer in his chest clatters, i catch the page as it falls: george lucas in a glue trap, rendered at 240p. incredible.

grafting human hands to the top of a crab, day 12: we have managed to attach four working hands to the upper carapace. he waves them constantly, testing his new limits day 57: the crab daps himself up relentlessly, gassed up beyond reason. his aura is too strong, recommending facility self destruct

wife and me? yeah, met huntin the bigfoot out bluff creek, rough country. yuge 'skeeters, bloodsuckers damn near left nothin to fill ol dale junior, ya'll get my drift. we set camp, lights out, lil lady comes in. we git it on, turns out it's bigfoot and she got that Grippy Drippy y'all get my drift,

my body is a water balloon, the payload is soup; flung with ferocious velocity by the strong arm of the void, screaming with joy as the wall approaches. my legacy will be writ large in a hot stain of bún bò huế, smeared across the facade of god's plasterboard bungalow. i will live forever

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"in my day we'd be suckin lead straight outta the paint can by sunset, memaw'd git all misty-eyed and talk bout that one time she broke into area 51 and saw them milkin a elvis. things was simpler. no smart telly phones, we got all our edutainment from the garden hose. it told lies but we loved it"

"ANOTHER" i scream around a mouthful of pulp and seeds, juice spraying down my chin like a geyser. denethor looks on in horror, unable to avert his attentions from the grotesquery. serfs bring yet more tomatoes, funnelling them into my gnashing maw. a tomato-mogging without mercy; denethor weeps

tiny cowboy's grip tightened around the six-shooter, an adrenalized symphony of blood and pressure pounding in his ears. he'd never killed a man before; guppo the slug rancher had left him no choice. the pounding gave way to cheering passengers, guppo's hijacking had failed. tiny 9/11 was over.

crocodiles. four lack perspective, six could never agree. five is both quorum and limit, five crocodiles to sit upon the disciplinary board; at least that's what they claimed, the wet charlatans. every penalty is 'death roll'! one croc could deliver that verdict at a fifth of the price! ridiculous!

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