a fancy dresser

There was no yellow snow here. It was INFURIATING! Instead, I ate some of that stuff over there. You know, out of spite. Ever get the feeling that bats are crawling down your esophagus, and your esophagus is a bird on the floor, screaming?

I've spun away from society's core. This is how it works: 1. You type something. 2. As a result (direct or not), somebody says something about bicycles on Global. 3. You go "WTF, I dismissed that theory when I was 14!" 5. Stop! We were in the heat of passion and you showed me the "progress" you had made, grainy as it was & transposed by your department-store scanner. These e-mail attachments, they're like surgery performed in increments by bored college students playing a prank; next thing you know, there's a fat kid laughing and you still can't account for the punch line. Anyway, you'd wrapped an undergarment around your doughy chest and posed as if you were Zooey Deschanel, a frightened kitten caught having sex with the tailpipe of the Millenium Falcon in your parents' kitchen during Thanksgiving Dinner. Poor Aunt Dee; the heart meds were in the purse. There was mascara on your lips and a bulge in your American Apparel boycuts. Maaan, I felt like someone who surfs the internets.

Why are people always noodles?

Dear Sir: Your message was either not delivered correctly, or some kind of newfangled iguana. Please find it in your heart to help these children; their eyeglasses have become permanently affixed to their heads, and now they tumble about incessantly, windmilling their arms.

Sometime during one of the ages belonging to Zille, grain grew freely from the papery hides of potatoes.

You'd pry a potato from the ground, and out it would come, bristling with grain and clods of earth all sticking to it like someone had dragged a komondor through a kiddie-pool of maple and brown sugar oatmeal.

This upset Lem, because in all his ramblings, he'd never once seen such a thing as a komondor, and whatever maple was, it was NOT going into HIS oatmeal (which was thought, at the time, to be a variety of yacht. Lem had many yachts in a profundity of happenin' colors and, like most hip folk, wore them on his feet under brown, suede loafers). And so Lem said "Screw this zany shit," and made all potatoes into chickens.

To this day, to get grain, one must squeeze a chicken until the grain-barbules burst forth from its skin like the quills of a porcupine.

You hear that, Lem?! Porcupine! Yeah, just TRY and wrap your imagination around that, you grubby, hillock-faced mass.