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Hvorfor det likevel er feil

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En kråke kan ikke bære mer enn en humle kan spise på et år, sa kjerringa og rista med innsamlingsbøssa. Hipp, hipp, hurra, så hippe vi er. Hold deg fast, her kommer Gunnar! Førr ei dame, som du, vil æ sleve, vil æ sleve. Og fjorten år senere hadde han ikke fem øre igjen til en lakrisbåt engang, tenk på det! En flambert pannekake med tomat to go, sa jeg, for det kunne man si, men bare på fransk hvis man hadde penger nok til trikken.

SODOMA OG GO'MORRA. Hun la på sprang nedover Karl Johan, for han var kjempestor og hun var på størrelsen med en ukokt ert. Selvbildene deres var derimot inverskorellert med mengden av parenteralt samtykke. La oss ikke gå nærmere inn på bruken av parafernalia overfor det norske språk. Slik ostens sanne står opp av havet skal solen synke på ditt brød. Nei, det er forresten ikke 110 % sant. Er mannen jeg ser bare prestens alter ego, eller var det ekskona som tok alteret i rettssaken? Fromhet står den smukke bi, biseksuell eller ei, einebær.

Mugg, mugg, pølse med lugg i en kopp med mjød fra i forimorgen. Og flombelyst skulle de være, som stjerner bosatt i en potet. Åtteogsytti brannslukningsapparat på ei tokvadrats flåte, det må man da kunne få til. Hvor er verden på tur henne? Stein, singel, grus og et spett, det var handlelappen jeg fikk utdelt.


This is a stream of bloody consciousness happening right here, right now. It might not be very intelligent, informative or funny even in a self-sadistic way, but this is all I'm getting at the moment. Actually, it's not too bad. I mean, I could've been tuning in to elephants gnawing on the heads of baby seals as part of some Third Reich experiment. Compared to that a few dancing midgets with barely any vegetative coverings ain't.. what? OK, it isn't good. Not good at all. I think I better see someone professional, and they better not be under average height. Someone to put up with all the shit and listen to the garbage. Or is it the other way around? Gaah, I dunno', but there's so much of it that I don't know where to start not knowing. Just go with the not knowing flow, and you'll be only partly surprised when it leads you nowhere. Precisely in the nowherest point of nothingness; in a gulf between Niflheim and Muspelheim where all the rabbits are before they jump out of a hat. I wish I could materialize out of hats for a living. Better that than flipping burgers or old people in a McDonalds/Retirement home, where the burgers are as floppy, yet as dry as the people who choke on them. But you can't blame them for that. Before the Heimlich maneouver became part of our medical heritage, choking was one of the fiercest killers out there. Eating was considered so hazardous that only a few people dared eat so much as to become half-human-half-blob entities. Nowadays, with Heimlich so generously applied, you can hardly cross a street without gliding on a blobulent corpse. In fact, blobulent corpses make up an important social transportation system, especially in winter when they make the finest sleighs you ever saw. Santa doesn't really have a sleigh, you know, he is himself attached to the reindeers, both physically and emotionally. Sadly, most of us can't afford a reindeer entourage, and this loss considerably lessens the worth of our funerals. With a set of Rudolphs you could BE your own hearse, if you were so inclined. May I be so bold as to suggest, not counting how exciting and interesting it would be, that it would not be a good idea nonetheless, because it could be counted as a form of fraud. Blobulent corpse piracy, I think they call it, though law is not strictly my main source of tea, or caffeineated products as a whole. I prefer subcutaneous injections of everything from caffeine to irony, but I'm trying to cut back on the latter in view of the very latest research. Excessive intake of irony may cause you to become a chronic ironic, which is not counted a somatic disease like hemochromatosis, but rather a mental affliction. It may very well drive all your loved once into a new apartment, whose only part you're allowed to share is the bill. A word to the wise: be careful with sarcasm as well. Sarcasmoidosis is a feared complication, and rightly so. It causes spontaneous sclerotic scar tissue formation in the face, leading to a characteristic leer and permanent crows' feet around the eyes. No amount of Botox will help, only a heavy dose of Notgettingthejoke (Humourawayex®) directly to the brain gives a satisfying chance of recovery, but it will leave you bereft of the understanding sarcasm forever. The dose isn't really that heavy, it's your brother when you're in need. A very specific need, yes, but it's still comforting to know that there are soulutions to even the most specific problems. You can even get help if you're attacked by animated dishtowels. However, you should be careful about shouting "animated dishtowels" too often, else help might not be there when you really, really need it. The first line of defence should always be an oblong, frozen piece of meat at about a foot long. Grab it straight from the freezer and proceed to smashing your adversaries. Afterwards you cook the meat and eat it, getting rid of the evidence. "Who cares if I violently disfigured and, ah, accidentally killed a few dishtowels?" You can say that again without getting any further. That dishtowel, however threatening, had a mom which loved it, and maybe you should consider inviting her to eat the murder weapon as compensation. People love compensation and free food, and will sue you to get it. True, there is no such thing as a free lunch, but you can make someone else pay the bill. Preferably not a bird that carries one attached to its face. That would surely be a cruel joke, but not entirely unpredicted seen as there's been a self-defencial killing, or whatever it's called. There are more fish in the sea, and dishtowels and human beings too. I guess that really means there's a virtual pool of people you can have your way with in all the wrong ways, if you have the looks that is. Or a silver tongue. I like those shiny tongues, they make me want to hunt down the owners and cut out the tiny tendrils as trophies, melt them down into silver-tongue-liquid and make bullets to fire at possible romantic partners. Me, a modern day Cupid/Clint Eastwood on the trail of beautiful women. I'll wear my two revolvers, Persuasion and Obeyme wan Kenobi (both by Calvin Klein) in crossed belts and have a large, wide-brimmed cowboy hat and a straw in my mouth. Nothing else, just to get more of that traditional Cupid feeling. Maybe I should be worried about this sudden leap towards severe exhibitionism, but isn't it a good thing if it turns out to satisfy society's pressing need for voyeurism? One naked cowboy walking around and you'll never need to worry about Peeping Toms. They're quite harmless anyhow, for poor Tom was, as the story goes, struck blind for his weakness. A naked lady on a horse isn't the worst thing to be the last thing you see. It could've been worse. Could've been a really ugly sweater flying towards your eyes. Mediocrity is the worst punishment ever. If you're going to lose a sense or a limb, let it at least be for something more exotic. I would've given a leg for an extra arm, given that it would've been functional. I'd get it attached to where my leg was previously hanging and train it to work as a foot during daytime, but at nighttime I would beat grown men in the groin with it. And solve crime, of course. We should all join in on solving crime as a civic duty. The least we could do is eat doughnuts (email to: donutreply@somethingcorporatesounding.com). It's fully legal, you don't even need a warrant to get one, although you have to pay for it. You've got to pay for everything, one way or another, nothing is free. But where can you get nothing these days? I needed some nothing yesterday, but all they had at the local store was lots of stuff, rows and rows and rows of it.

Hvorfor det likevel har konnotasjoner til hjembruk

The automaton waits brightly beneath the staircase of a murder unsolved. No one dares about it with dangerously infused habits of carrying carrots in pocket waistbands. The wavelength of hair could be contained in a flabbergasted funroil of pantomime pants and other familiaria. Can you hear it? When you dance down the stairs of your own utter abandonment. Sinecure and secure in a cocoon of flair and despair. Nothing ever matters when you’ve got the sun on your shoulders and no time to waste. Hand hurts from the exertion. Extorting the mind in its pride. Praid. Praid. Predijuice and other pedigree pals on a moonrise halved by two. Bon bon bonnie lass with a tractor pipe and a handful of dollar nuggets. I wanna have a beardmonger afternoon tomorrow. Then waste not the wanting on wonton sauce. One ton of sauce? Onion juice, onion juice, the mole on the back of my thumb can’t be destroyed or delayed when it’s in this mood.