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05/28/26   
Breaking down barriers like a drunken Mario Andretti

Lonely Cloud

by Laurence Trundle Lawrence
bio/email
December 8, 2003
I wandered lonely as a cloud,
it was Halloween and I had about
sixty pounds of cotton
glued to my leotards.
And nobody wanted to trick or treat
with a kid
who was dressed up like a that.
Needless to say, being seven sucked bad.
The stars shone down
like Christmas lights
all flashing in crazy sequences
that made me nauseous
and I got sick on the tree stand.
That was on Christmas,
but the stars made me sick like that too.
If there'd been a tree stand there
I can't say I wouldn't have sicked on it
but that would have been pretty weird to see
on Halloween
unless it was holding up a pumpkin tree or something.
So to recap, I was a lonely
seven-year-old cloud
and I almost barfed.
But then I saw
a shitload of flowers
like at least seven
possibly more.
And I thought of how
if I ate all those flowers
maybe I could fly.
Hey, I was seven.
But then this guy in a wife-beater
popped out his door and started yelling
about how he was going to punt my little ass
across the street
if I didn't stop eating all his flowers.
So I hauled ass fastly as a cloud
that doesn't want to get its ass kicked
by a bigger cloud
and ran all the way to my cloud house.
But even now,
when huger pangs
sometimes I think of having a flower burrito or something.
When the florist has his back turned
Quick!
Hey screw you, man
I never liked
your flower shop
anyway.


Quote of the Day
“Christ on a bike! Did anybody else see that guy that looked just like Jesus Christ riding by on a bicycle a minute ago?”

-LeVonn Marthers
Fortune 500 Cookie
Last week was your best week; sorry we're late getting to you about that. From here on out, your life's gonna be shit on chips. Your dreams of becoming a major baseball star will be derailed this week by the fact that you couldn't hit a cow in the ass with a shovel. Stop using the term "Gay Bash," at once: it does not mean a fun party for homosexuals. This week's lucky Bings: Crosby, Chandler, Bada, cherries, the sound of a superball being shot out of an air cannon into an old woman's neck flap.

Try again later.
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