The privacy shifted in the low-octane revival. My eyebrows felt like feminine napkins trying to stanch the menstrual flow of the universe. That’s when I knew to be lost was really just waiting to be found.
I strapped on my caffeine goggles and ground my feet into the key-lime shag carpet. Your God may be forgiving but mine is a blue spark waiting to happen. The children gathered outside the compound like feral cats waiting on the tuna fleet’s return.
How could I tell them what we found in the mountains of mole hills? In the streams of consciousness? In the phantasmagoric diaspora of broken brittle tongues where the only music was the sound of souls descending to Hell?
Suarez…where in the fuck was Suarez? I gave him twenty coins of the realm, more than enough for the props and gadgets necessary. He better have my change.
Boy, wasn’t Claude Akins Great in Sheriff Lobo? What a Great time in American TV. Simply Great. I mean who knew he could top his Great performance in the Great F Troop? But he kept changing, evolving and never allowed himself to be content with being a Hollywood Icon. He pursued Great. And finally he emboldened Great. And what a lot of people don’t know thanks to general obfuscation and other proletarian tactics by the LAMESTREAM MEDIA is that he was Donald Trump’s father. So consider this: Claude was an Indian, Lobo is Mexican for wolf, his deputy on Lobo was a hermaphrodite (at least I’ve been told) and last but not least, is there any word that rhymes with orange? So you see Herr Trumpf had all those bases covered, those boxes checked, way before Killary was procuring sex babies in pizza parlors and secret passageways to ivory towers up and down the Elitist East Coast. So come with me and embrace a Great past that never existed. One catch though, I think all the TV’s are going to be in black and white…