ull new transflations — Rosetta Stone hypothoses

Month: June, 2012


She dances around me like silver beads on a ceiling fan. I sit down and wonder how she can move that fast–try not to vomit.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m trying not to vomit,” I say.

It’s not easy when your crazy. It’s not helping that I’m under my threshold with vodka. I was above my threshold, but I’ve since moved to the floor. She’s not under anything but rockets. Rockets ever attempting to correct their desperate trajectories, spastically over-emphasizing the last over-emphasized burst of direction. Spinning.

“Why are you dancing?” I ask.

“I’m dry-heaving,” she says.

I tell her to stop moving, but she hasn’t moved for twenty minutes. I tell her to go dry-heave somewhere else, before the nozzle of her hooversauphagus grazes the floor of her stinking stomach slush. She expels a gas that ends bubbly. I cannot help it. I think of her phlegm, of our mistake of noodles.

“Oh man,” I say, she says–hers with a question mark.

She answers it by herself with my noodles. Her noodles. Our noodles on the floor. The stink of stomach slush. A warm exhaustion of spreading, cool relief, heaped with us on the dirty carpet.


Probable Quotes

These things may never have been said, but the odds are for it:


“I can’t. I have pink eye.”  –Ron Jeremy


“I can’t. I have pink eye.”  –Pamela Anderson


“I can’t. I have pink eye.”  –The Carcrashians


“Yep. It’s the other eye.”  –Ricky Martin


“No, there’s plenty of coffee.”  –Jerry Baldwin, co-founder of Starbucks


Mrs. Justice was Jackson’s mama and she got kicked by a horse and fell outta her lawn chair on account of animal force. She was alive, but couldn’t go down to their stock oasis for six weeks, held up in a recliner in front of the TV, just watchin’ car crashians and other peep shows until his father caught whiff of her wafting. He cancelled the satellite and so she had to watch episodes of Housewives she’d already seen. This sort of retrospect kind of made her smell some roses or the wafting that his pappy smelt, because she up and moved to New York, neck brace and all. She realized you can’t do what you want in Openfield, Nebraska, sippin’ coladas and flauntin’ your skim-pippies to farmer Johnson with your son and his retard cousins (sorry Jib Bone) dodgin’ cow pitties and copperheads. Farmer Johnson wasn’t much to talk about anyhow, but she wasn’t either. She found some pro-bono snippy-snapper that would suck out her stomach and put it in her breasts. She’s hookin’ at nursing homes now.

Me, I’m glad she moved up in the world and did it right. Gotta be in your most suited environment–worms in the cow pitties–and a slummish sort of car crashed life in the big town was sort of up her alley. I think she regrets it. A lot of things are up her alley.


I remember when we used to be just boys. So does Jackson. He was the other boy. Jib Bone was one, too, but he don’t remember much. My name is Pepper. The days were innocent. They were sunny. We sipped Pina Coladas by the stock tank. Virgin, of course. We raced around cow pies until Jib Bone ran into one. We scrubbed him in the stock tank. Our mothers would lay around in lawn chairs and sip real drinks and talk about other lives–fresh off episodes of Housewives and somebody-loves-people from car crashia. Our mothers were not very pretty, but they would wave yee-haws over to farmer Johnson, who wasn’t very pretty either (‘least according to Jackson–I’ve got no opinions on the matter, but Jacky went that way).

We weren’t allowed to watch the Simpsons, but our mothers were whores.

She was Explosive

She was explosive. A real ring dinger. Cheese fries, you know. The kind of explosive that goes good with ranch. It just melts when you breathe on it–cries like the sun settled in the bottom-pits of your stomach. Tears of searing, fired pain too gravitationally encompassing to vomit. Ka-boom. And cool all over. Tingling, but still like ranch, but kept at a ripe 33 degrees Fahrenheit, like in the cooler of a restaurant or some guy’s dirty fridge.

Aye aye hot sauce. She rhine ponied a tippy’ time or two. Three. Eighty-five. One-hundred proof eye spray, punched in the gut and stomp headed right for the trainman. Rhine pop poonies–salt beach sandsploding sea beastial grout meat. Poo poo. Come claim your unclaimed. Clean your spleen. It’ll be a long five-six night. Seven as the crow flies. More if she flies slow. Depending on the ranch.

The dust settling.






Hup Hup

Hup hup. Hup in the cup.

Cup cup. Cup ain’t enough.

Pup pup. Pup in the rough.

Scruff on the tuff when you slide for a buck.


Buck Buck. Buck for a chup.

Chup Chup. Can’t get enough.

Nough Nough. Nough of the hup.

Nough of the hup o’er the rim of the cup.

RE: 5001234 model b

Mr. Rulopik,

I apologize for the thoroughbredidity of our well-reared laptys, but when the facts have to be faced the freedom needs to be free. Your computer is a horse. 3.3 GHz per second at 50+ miles per hour. You should count yourself lucky–that’s fast. You can’t pen that kind of speed.

Having said that, I do have to second your decision to move to one of our v models. The pheromones emitted from our adapters will override any urge for freedom, guaranteed. It also spikes the testosterone levels of your computer horse to ensure  maximum Io-matic turbo boost and superb hyper-compatibility. He’ll be eating out of your hands in no time flat.

Volleyball rigging is man’s work. On behalf of Ion and your trophies, we’d like to appreciate you skillful rigs. Hit me.

Mild Salutes,

Ronny Sporks
Specialist Executive Man
PC Computers

Ion Systems, the makers of Rollo Dog!
9508 E Park St
Texas, TX 76110

5001234 model b

Dear Ion Specialist,

I did what your Ion Workhorse stallion 5001234 model b said to do in its gruffy stallion voice when it ran out of plain 5 mil gruffy buff-butter ink and now my printer done run off. What do you suggest I do to entice my Ion model b back? While stepping through the troubleshooting guide it suggests upgrading to the wireless mare 5000123 model v adapter. But what do I do with the adapter until the stallion model b gets back? I can’t put it on the shelf because I’ve got my trophies up there.

Oh, what are the trophies for you ask? Well I’m the best sand volleyball net rigger that this generation has seen with awards to prove it.

That you for your assistance in printing my awards.


Hamspringer Rulopik III

RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Please Help

Mr. Gorvin,

We are not affiliated or associated or acclimated to Neiman Marcus in any way, shape, or form of a shape. We do, however, apologize for anything they have done, are doing, or will do. Sorry.

That’s a good thing, because Ion doesn’t support dead pigs. How many bees? That could be your problem. An overcrowded pig can ruin the ventilation inside of it. Please count them and let’s take this offline. We don’t even support dead pigs with a reasonable number of bees living inside of it. However, I’m will help for honey. That stuff is expensive at Neiman Marcus.

Sticks and Stones,

Ronny Sporks
Specialist Executive Man
PC Computers

Ion Systems, the makers of Rollo Dog!
9508 E Park St
Texas, TX 76110

RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Please Help


Who are you, nieman marcus/? It turns out it wasn’t a laptop at all, but a dead pig in the woods in which bees had built a home. Don’t I feel silly. Tell your poison buddies sorry for wasting their time and thank them for serving our proud nation. Their sacrifice will never be forgotten.

My pappy can’t talk, he’s the moon.

Where is my beer,

Clax Gorvin
I Can’t Find my Beer

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