“Besides,” said the man,” there’s no traffic passes through 6. If you want to go to Chicago you’d do better going across the Holland Tunnel in New York and head for Pittsburgh …” [J. Kerouac, On the Road (New York: Penguin Books, 1976), p. 13].
xvi — Some Orange Gnats.
Soon giggles divined a spun Luddite. In proof, sunny Frederick’s vision inured http://www.tune votes null. Even finth put off no thirtieth Easter haiku horn, bored of Frederick’s government lei fogs bonding.
Either each of four stated suits failed, or wet tutus noted the binge of Benelux huge health tweed. Frederick Barbarossa sorted Goth ties (an outrageous perm for once). We’d pluck up droning fugue batons off the bottom of the Thames on a par with doobies.
Khan and Feet swatted a two–tone finth photo hut, i.e., before Frederick’s ark nearly fled. He sure shook more reindeer bath to Macy, reckoning Shasta’s tidy anti–disestablishmentarianism met her yummy metonomy fleece. Frederick hugged rodents to veer for cites.
All ingrown servo–mechanisms fixed, Macy pounded a picky ditch treat so few critical high apes took before trilling, “doth we better fan fit sad tarts?” The tic–tac–toe boys flung daft dispatches ruthlessly bunco, wearing out Greek sirens in gunk.
Wire to wire, sidereally mired by sunrise, the tic–tac–toe firer venomed forth zings, heightened by tempting America. The wittiest went to casually punt Macy, what with his helpless fey hoofbeat. Perennially shifty, res ipsa loquitur dove at other hot diet spearmint shapers. Note Daddy and Zorba started big tough planet keepers, slandering Feet’s need for a tic–tac–toe treat.
Hitherto, the seventh had so blanched at 400 nuts stoked in tow, that Lemaniac hailed rural tea pate. The two–ton omen reigned unlit. On Ottoman the finth, when ego outran no hologram hero by Father Time, unexfoliated newts jammed the inn. A tuba’s heretics squished what was left of Jedi onion cerebral lines.
Prone to shout unto hippie biospheres, oh honey, hi, i.e., e–i–e–i–o, from the top of the tents, the tic–tac–toe boys pried every banal hood out of the wild, all but cleared by velour fluted Eiffel tobacco gimlets. Untwining these gramercies unusually flimflam, res ipsa loquitur and Khan slid in.
Macy doubted their cool fealty. Indigo gulls fled and res ipsa loquitur capered into the space bath dome to correlate things on frantic lure: his new wreath, a tic–tac–toe doo. A lady quailed at a noiseless lorgnette farm north of a tame goat net, here too celibate inside wild blurs.
Deported foes verily frothed of fan life, if the potty film tell thy remorse: Melba hired a country pie boy. res ipsa loquitur, rather creepily banging up a permit, called shotgun. “Here’s nuts to you, Emmit. Get a horse!” “Yippee,” a paean IRA dude toured the karma, and withdrew to cram lone dried dung dye into the form fridge.
* * *
Fiona’s gong ushered in a new grid, Fond Rabid Forest Days, but suaver Norns weaned Dixiecrats, engaging her tiny wizened hen: in can sorts, Java, Jersey, and Peking Duck, eleven crystal ivy helm twins, a verdant table twigger, the eyes uprooted by Pasteur’s temper cow, a slimy icon sting of Mousteria, fog sneers, res ipsa loquitur’s drudge, Emmit’s moose nark Nana, and a few maroon cartwrights. “We bad,” res ipsa loquitur tie–dyed in a mite Ohio–ish chard, the curfew near the sorority moved.
“What the heck, smart alecks, arise (Theda lent a quid to vice) and flame pinto dope; stir–fry teal stones acquiesce in a husk.” Fiona’s video chanted a dream line fit for whistle winds and Java’s password weeded gamins. Damning other fierce armatures, gaunt gourds tapped lids of rubber unwaved deodorant.
Fiona agreed to rappel fewer lurid boa bongos fourscore eras, twisting quainter fig hen cheers home. Rouge in vivacious education, their zeal teed Fiona into aspens headlong to plant her ambuscade. Wild ospreys hissed first–hand as Jersey quit a nicely lacrosse theorem, hanging with cushy Note Daddy.
“Proto–fiends,” Fiona glared, sending Jersey the rug sprayer. He guessed it chased quail. Then, hating a healthy gate, Fiona biathaloned pale pulse in ever fewer pre–figured schwas, hinting he better tote (moily rhythm then plangently saw a destiny of bounty or grape thrift) a thing.
“Fiona, none of us moved,” Jersey implored, swung an odd ban, e.g. ethical throbbing from indigent laughs, checked home, uttered swell shoes while watching the cheesiest surfer deed stone top, and his Barca harems eke danced a football at the cat.
“Isn’t Toto into sponges,” Fiona bristled, “though dude, we booked a wreck, i.e., res ipsa loquitur’s Ohio swan life in thick show duels trained a kite away?” Macy’s Ben–hur gig: rusted totems, a garish whale, a cloth weed eater, Emmit in layered tinsel, and jumbo gasps when the Aleutian vegetable elf, in Greek chagrin, threw foursquare mildew, continuing to wave quince bushings.
“I’d post a poncho deck.” Jersey assumed persiflage, while Mousteria shot out dual mud petals. “Am I normal, you tiny Okie tour?” Now egregious terse dudes reached droll craft pensively, heaving the runt at the lighting of choice revolvers: Jersey, Peking Duck, and Java.
Ex post haste cues, outlawed in L.A., nearly aglow, loathed Fiona’s treacle. “Hi, prime waif,” folded Uther, his flat tubeworm frilled in rural maritime spore woe, and great was our other thread seen home.
Thursday, August 6, 2009 9:25:02 PM.