All Joe king aside
Humor iz a vital stove topface component to survive the cares and concerns oven uncertain culinary future, that presages over heating of this planet concomitant with extinction per the human race.
Many gauges point toward an irrevocable debacle where the evolutionary timer seems to ticking, heading, and (hmm…more like barreling) toward becoming a cooked goose.
An ear splitting ruth less buzzer will be an impossible mission to clap quiet while steam issues out the airwaves from stymied paunchiest pilot light buck kit brigade.
If and/or when such a fiery fate befalls this arrogantly bombastic, conceitedly egoistic, forlorn, grievously hapless, irascibly jangling, kookily middling luddite, he hopes his demise will be brutish, short and nasty while the surviving foreign legion members of locked humanity hob bull along the blitzed boulevard of broken dreams.
Whatever provokes a maniacal person to laugh as the world turns tumultuously affecting a surreal ambience akin to the edge of night (especially with dark shadows) may appear wantonly vapid unspooling threnodies sotto voce.
Rational quartermasters promulgated outlandish no mans land. Knowledge jackknifed ideal humane gentility. Febrile earthlings’ dragnet cleaved bona fide actualization.
What other option available to tinker, tailor, soldier spy except to chuckle at the folly gingerly loosened upon the terra firmae?
Nothing short of an uproarious chortle would be prescribed from doctor demento to ameliorate the tightly wound tension arising from local or global aggression arising from bullies calling their bluff fed goat bluster, division by the zero sum game.
Thus, this mechanically nonsensical, pop sic cull pot purée to throw fire retardant on the conflict frission intonating loopy outré playfulness with words hoop ping quadratic equations totally add further meaninglessness.
Hence muff friend, aye axe hew, how does humor get decided? Laughter versus humor All Joe king aside. Jest parody offers funny types of humor Seriously folks. What spurs this laughter?
Repression of natural mandated libidinal kickstarter jammed in high gear feeds e-z dropsy clodhoppers bursts of hyena sounding eruptions.
The cervical contractions puffed up like jiffy pop laced pompadour, increased with greater frequency and intensity asthma due date approached (which felt like violent shaking of the biological booty re: me), especially prominent when “mother” gracefully described Arabesque.
She gravitated to modus operandi sans professional ballet dancer like a duck would drake to water, and salve and duff heat whirled pool ache kin to preparation H soothing the pain in the ass of hemorrhoids.
Hours elapsed with incessant stretching (while in a standing pose) blithely drawing ne either leg or the other up against those roseate facial cheeks.
When quite progressed along the family way with yours truly, thy status while in utero where her cervix stretched akin to a taut rubber band near ready tubby (or knot tibia) snapped, like ballet slippers suspending balanced balls of toes pointed to maximum flexion, or inflated balloon ready to pop beyond capacity or, bulged in utero, she maintained a fanatic, maniacal, and slavish veneration asper the rigorous being a choreographed top notch ballerina.
This passion to bend body electric defied laws of fig newton’s, finagled parallel dimensions, and hugged joie de vivre limbs maintaining nonchalant passion recognized talent unbridled versatility waiving youngest attaining burlesque, Churrigueresque dramatic elegiac fluidity transformed thine mama into a holographic, kaleidoscopic, and opportunistic piquant rondelet thru vitality, whimsicality, and zealotry.
Gracefulness hove spectators to behold defiance asper flexibility of muscles in conjunction with defiance of physics.
Once immersed in a classical routine, thee supple rubbery form assumed by thine mother fucking focused klieg lights upon wondrous kinetic magic kingdom cum.
An audience member vicariously experienced dalliance of some mind-numbing narcotic minus the addiction.
Stupefaction transfixed the gaze upon the dynamic parameters of space and time to present an enchanting moveable feast replete with operatic poetry, quixotic romanticism, and sculpturesque statuesque totemic union verging on affects cast by a singular whirling dervish.
A heightened indoctrination of jubilation radiated from every cell of this artiste in motion. Pirouettes cast grotesque dark shadows and etched the faux edge of night scenario with gigantesque ghoulish phantasmagoric veterans of many tragic-comic composers long since vetted into the storied ballroom of fame.
No surprise then that when mine exit from the berth canal of stage nom de plume Harriet Harris witnessed by a full house, my denouement propelled from the tender vittles tulip ruffled private naughty bits induced balletic movements.
Meanwhile me mum (real name christened Chrys Anne Thumb) busily intensely engrossed herself (terrifically totally tubularly) within whose intertwined arms and legs that emulated an analogy to a pretzel held me snug as a bug in rug.
A pause (which many interpreted to initiate an applause) sprung a contagion of hand clapping that drowned out the impetus signifying the first breath of this wordsmith.
Only as the slap happy flesh diminished did ardent hard fans of a triumphant fancy feast and foot loose Gangnam style winged goddess take stock of the starlit cradling a newborn.
Frightful faces and peculiar sounds appeared scary.
Thence spurred via submit able exertion climaxing with a riveting acrobatic contortion (essentially forcing this now grown baby boomer former chap -lain cocooned for nine months within the womb), thyself made headway into an alien world, whereat this full term new born did provide his own wailing lyrics (even at that tender infant hood, an iconoclastic antiestablishmentarian).
This now grown baby boomer chap lain cocooned for nine months within the womb, who sought nothing more nor less than that which necessitates being swaddled, pampered, mollycoddled, cuddled, bundled, and held close to the bosom.
As grown middle-aged madman (albeit married to a X-Files rabid fan) still craves, desires, and gloms toward picturesque pairs of pendulous pliant plump prized politically incorrect breastworks.
Comments