the cows come home.
The bulls will then
wear red capes and
chase matadors until they
(the matadors) expire of
toxic shock syndrome, although
some got gored in
the worst place imaginable:
right up the wazoo
fixing four enlarged prostates
was a snap, only
one teeny tiny complication:
the scalpel slipped when
the surgeon tripped over
the sturgeon, sending both
crashing into a virgin
detector." Traffic swerved around
the incomprehensible reality anomaly,
where roundabouts intersected like
spaghetti in my colon.