Aye-Yee. 'Twilst not be a cold night in the silent town of Grcitzia.
Hello, hello, and welcome, my readers! Oh, of the times we shall share. My new friends! Felix! Don-Cab-Fan! Oh, the wonderous times we shall describe using nothing more than Cathode-Ray tubes and image-transference systems plugged into a multi-national system of Fibrous-Optical lines which transmit little schminkits of information which is displayed as horizontal lines of 26 idiosyncratic phonetic symbols and about eight to ten punctuation denotationors.
Ah! I shall tell you of the Morn's Happenings-Ons.
At sunrise this morning, I arose from my Meat-Slab mattress and stretched out my frail, scorpion-enveloped arms. I quickly brushed off the small scorpions (they feast on my flesh as I sleep), and placed on my Government-Issued Legs-Pants. I combed my Hair-Strands of my scalp and lip, scoured my teeth with animal fat and lye with an iron rag, as my Physician, Doctor Hertzgotzchev Mengele Tristynka, advises me to do. I climbed the 15 steps up from my Basement-Dwelling to the surface world.
I descended down Trontzki Street toward the local Barber's Shope and Alcohol-Retail Bar-Room. As I turned a corner, I saw my Land-Lady, Frau Yitzchylo, bleeding beneath some concrete rubbish. Aparently, an old nearby Battle-Damaged building had collapsed. As I stood there, I recalled my memory to inform me of when such damage had occured. I remembered when the Dzytoyev rebels had shelled parts of the city ten years ago. This building, which lay in ruins now at my feet, had been struck exactly once by a large artillary shell at the time. I recall the bloody day- the building had served as a nursury for the town's Infant-Population. Now, the old structure had finnaly collapsed.
I gazed down at my twitching Land-Lady.
"Why do you lie there, Frau Yitzchylo?", I asked her, smiling. Immediatley she began moving her exposed foot in a Come-Hither manner. Needless to say, I was shocked by her amorous gesture. Would this bleeding old wreck, twitching and shaking at my shoes before me, be actually interested in making Slippy-Stick with me? Never to be the losing one, I quickly undressed myself of my Government-Issued Legs-Pants, and proceded to remove some of the cinder and brick which covered her loinal areas. She began to make muffled sqauking noises. "Oh!" I shouted in suprise. "Thank you, kind woman, for remainding be of my Barber's-Appointment. I shall greatly reward you when I return, you can count on that!," remarked I, with a twinkly in my eye, partially exposing my bloodied and withered tongue.
So down the Road I walked, until I eventually came upon an old Fecal-colored One-Story. In front, on a Rotation-Platform, was a marble-white statue of the Now-Dead Lord, Jesus the Christos. Mr. Barber had painted a corkscre pattern of Chicken's Blood upon the statue, which, when rotated, produces a hypotical whirl of light and color, which Mr. Barber used to disorient customers and remove organs for Blacks-Market sale. Lucky for me, my eyes barely function, and I lack the coactive brain centers to produce such a glaringly mobii effect. So, inward I went into Mr. Barber's Hairs-Slicing Shope. I had hoped to get my Cranial-Orb shaven bare, so that I needn't worry longer of mice and Silverfish dwelling in my hairs. Mr. Barber almost did his ful job, but he seemed to forget that his Christ-Whirl statue does not produce a Hypnos-state in me. He cut out my kidney with a scalpel, nonetheless, but only after he agreed to share 50% of the profits with me. A beautiful man, that Mr. Barber is.
On my Returning-Homeward, I stopped at the Bar-Taven to order up for myself a Molotov Cocktail. Now, I know what you may be thinking: "Molotov Cocktails are bombs, not drinks." Well, during some political upheaval (when it was revealed that our Mayor enjoyed drinking alcohol, gambling-games, and sexual intercourse), I took to the streets to protest such rambunctious action. With me, I brought several Terpintine/Gasoline/Vodka Molotov Cocktails, which I planned to hurl at other Protesters and Police-Men. Well, the Polices-Force had crushed the revolt with tanks and gunships, so I was left in the street, surrounded by current and soon-to-be corpses, with nothing to do....but drink. And so that is how I developed my liking towards Fire-Excellerant liquids.
Well, back in the Bar-Room, I was confronted by Old Stalyich. Stalyich and I were once friends, but he fellated me once when I was passed out, and didn't swallow, so we have been rivals ever since. Stalyich proclaimed me as a fink and scally-wag before all of the Bar-Room's other patrons. This angered me so. I immediately crushed his face with a Stool's-Leg, and lacerated his belly with a shattered Vodka bottle. He quickly pulled out his knife-of-death (with which it is said that he had killed nearly a dozen cattle with) and proceded to chase me. Ever the quick-thinking one, I picked up my Molotov Cocktail, and bashed him over the face with it. His lit cigarette had caused the liquid mixture to ignite, thus setting his skull ablaze. I laughed with wonder as he screamed, his brain cells being destroed by the intense heat, and finnaly collapsed to the Bar-Room's dirt floor, his exposed Jaws-Bones set and charred in such a way as to ever preserve his terrified face.
Upon returning home, I cam across Frau Yitzchylo. Her inards were already being feasted upon by the city's vermin. Slut.
Ah, so here I am, in my Basement-Room at last. I am tired. I shall be resting soonwardly. My new baldened head shall fare well the night. Ho-ha! Let us see how the lice like me now!
Toodle-Loo, my friends!
Ah! I shall tell you of the Morn's Happenings-Ons.
At sunrise this morning, I arose from my Meat-Slab mattress and stretched out my frail, scorpion-enveloped arms. I quickly brushed off the small scorpions (they feast on my flesh as I sleep), and placed on my Government-Issued Legs-Pants. I combed my Hair-Strands of my scalp and lip, scoured my teeth with animal fat and lye with an iron rag, as my Physician, Doctor Hertzgotzchev Mengele Tristynka, advises me to do. I climbed the 15 steps up from my Basement-Dwelling to the surface world.
I descended down Trontzki Street toward the local Barber's Shope and Alcohol-Retail Bar-Room. As I turned a corner, I saw my Land-Lady, Frau Yitzchylo, bleeding beneath some concrete rubbish. Aparently, an old nearby Battle-Damaged building had collapsed. As I stood there, I recalled my memory to inform me of when such damage had occured. I remembered when the Dzytoyev rebels had shelled parts of the city ten years ago. This building, which lay in ruins now at my feet, had been struck exactly once by a large artillary shell at the time. I recall the bloody day- the building had served as a nursury for the town's Infant-Population. Now, the old structure had finnaly collapsed.
I gazed down at my twitching Land-Lady.
"Why do you lie there, Frau Yitzchylo?", I asked her, smiling. Immediatley she began moving her exposed foot in a Come-Hither manner. Needless to say, I was shocked by her amorous gesture. Would this bleeding old wreck, twitching and shaking at my shoes before me, be actually interested in making Slippy-Stick with me? Never to be the losing one, I quickly undressed myself of my Government-Issued Legs-Pants, and proceded to remove some of the cinder and brick which covered her loinal areas. She began to make muffled sqauking noises. "Oh!" I shouted in suprise. "Thank you, kind woman, for remainding be of my Barber's-Appointment. I shall greatly reward you when I return, you can count on that!," remarked I, with a twinkly in my eye, partially exposing my bloodied and withered tongue.
So down the Road I walked, until I eventually came upon an old Fecal-colored One-Story. In front, on a Rotation-Platform, was a marble-white statue of the Now-Dead Lord, Jesus the Christos. Mr. Barber had painted a corkscre pattern of Chicken's Blood upon the statue, which, when rotated, produces a hypotical whirl of light and color, which Mr. Barber used to disorient customers and remove organs for Blacks-Market sale. Lucky for me, my eyes barely function, and I lack the coactive brain centers to produce such a glaringly mobii effect. So, inward I went into Mr. Barber's Hairs-Slicing Shope. I had hoped to get my Cranial-Orb shaven bare, so that I needn't worry longer of mice and Silverfish dwelling in my hairs. Mr. Barber almost did his ful job, but he seemed to forget that his Christ-Whirl statue does not produce a Hypnos-state in me. He cut out my kidney with a scalpel, nonetheless, but only after he agreed to share 50% of the profits with me. A beautiful man, that Mr. Barber is.
On my Returning-Homeward, I stopped at the Bar-Taven to order up for myself a Molotov Cocktail. Now, I know what you may be thinking: "Molotov Cocktails are bombs, not drinks." Well, during some political upheaval (when it was revealed that our Mayor enjoyed drinking alcohol, gambling-games, and sexual intercourse), I took to the streets to protest such rambunctious action. With me, I brought several Terpintine/Gasoline/Vodka Molotov Cocktails, which I planned to hurl at other Protesters and Police-Men. Well, the Polices-Force had crushed the revolt with tanks and gunships, so I was left in the street, surrounded by current and soon-to-be corpses, with nothing to do....but drink. And so that is how I developed my liking towards Fire-Excellerant liquids.
Well, back in the Bar-Room, I was confronted by Old Stalyich. Stalyich and I were once friends, but he fellated me once when I was passed out, and didn't swallow, so we have been rivals ever since. Stalyich proclaimed me as a fink and scally-wag before all of the Bar-Room's other patrons. This angered me so. I immediately crushed his face with a Stool's-Leg, and lacerated his belly with a shattered Vodka bottle. He quickly pulled out his knife-of-death (with which it is said that he had killed nearly a dozen cattle with) and proceded to chase me. Ever the quick-thinking one, I picked up my Molotov Cocktail, and bashed him over the face with it. His lit cigarette had caused the liquid mixture to ignite, thus setting his skull ablaze. I laughed with wonder as he screamed, his brain cells being destroed by the intense heat, and finnaly collapsed to the Bar-Room's dirt floor, his exposed Jaws-Bones set and charred in such a way as to ever preserve his terrified face.
Upon returning home, I cam across Frau Yitzchylo. Her inards were already being feasted upon by the city's vermin. Slut.
Ah, so here I am, in my Basement-Room at last. I am tired. I shall be resting soonwardly. My new baldened head shall fare well the night. Ho-ha! Let us see how the lice like me now!
Toodle-Loo, my friends!