Time For Another

Three Word Story

From Page 56 here is the story (up to 56)

Time For Another Three Word Story

Once upon an erroneous assumption (painfully common hereabouts), I invaded Intelligentsia with my rapier sharp witticisms, and rubber ball of folksy humour, only unbeknownst to all You are sleepy… the poisons have wicked off the enquiring nostril of the last intellectual, but, hitherto unknown Vicks sinex spray exploded explosively outward, terminating this interminable pointless rhetorical delinquency.

Protonotary apostolic cross-dressers did jumping jacks; Village People impersonations (“Sisters” of Mercy) sound effects and Le Pétomane impersonations, all while rabid nuns stripped provocatively to tempt the Ubuntus aboard Scrivener with flawless success (if you overlook the headless chooks teasing Phineas Gage). Slackwarers felt disenfranchised. Gnomes rebelled against the tide; pixies and troll dolls, cavorted unashamedly, before the unrepentant Sisters.

Cosmic background radiation, ‘Tanning Salons’, offered free melanoma testing to unemployed Vampires, who queued palely, each attempting to bite the nuns, out of hab(b)it, the ho-bitten hobbits, hobbitively hobnobbed, hobnobbingly. David Hasselhoff appeared to hastily hassle obscene, infinitive splitters and comma abusers.

Interstellar fartgas propulsion, noiseless but noxious, takes naked nuns out to lunch (hot baked buns) en-route to heavenly rendezvous with destiny outside, Criogenetica’s Bistro failed hygiene standards set by dirty telephone sanitation workers after a 3-week binge drinking sojourn on Alpha Centostockportia. Dave stood silently, toying with abstractions and subdivisions, history repeating itself as repeatedly foretold in the greatToynbee-Kubrick tradition.

“Kiss ma booty,” said the Nun, smiling at Father, whose high heels garnered covetous glances. “Listen, lady. I have a microscopic whatyamacallit.” Nobody heard his boastful claim regarding his powerful claim to boastfulness. Dave gyrated vigorously, “Dangerous that,init?” Pedanticaticus, said, sagely into his navel. "It’s bigger inside Intergalactic Federation’s cafe since they remodelled. Retro décor’s crap, but Saturnestia pizza’s Salmonella Sausage Specialty threatened biological redecoration, non era specific headgear - specifically hats full of sausagey Broderie Anglaise dangledowns.

Misanthropic, Samson Testosterone Paddywacker pulled polyps. Dave’s head exploded!!! Jaysen look jealously at headless Dave and muttered, “Now, that’s one sexy cranial expansion.” Though disoriented Dave disagreed, he declined to model Jaysen’s lingerie without fluffy mules.

Amazonian headhunters arrived, full of themselves and supplied with prosthetic heads for honing their technique. Dave signed, “Gimme.”

“Didgitus impudicus!” Nathaniel Braymore expounded expurgatedly.

“Waassssaaaat!” implored Tittycaca. “WestSide!” backflashed Dave.

“Really? How enchanting,” replied the metermaid’s helpless, hapless victim while standing in what amounted to superabundant guano. Effluvium wafted up from Proxima Centauri’s cesspit where the epigram “Veni, Vidi, Pepedi”, inspired many men and lovely ladies to orgiastic abandon. It was perhaps fortuitous, that Caligula sniffed her armpits and scratched her edible thong zipper.

In a galaxy entirely too nearby to the bald Agrippa, Mother Superior was agnostic but nice with it, considering her predilections for auto-erotic macramé with Udder Butter and Bag Balm, hand made MooGoo on cowpat fritters, aka "moo pies smiling at me, nothing but moo pies do I recirculate amongst amongst a monks amongst drunk monkeys dancing in rancid trances.

The Gods laughed, farted and partied; parted seas prestidigitally whilst kneading dough, tuning in Tokyo Rose’s apocryphal propaganda.

Bandy the panda breeder said, “Pricks on fingers hurt–nay,violate–decorum.” That bad…eh.

Then the moose abuse, rampant aboard HMS Noah’s Ark sent shock waves–vibrotactile elephant vocalizations–rapping the knuckles like dominatrix housewives wielding feather dusters billowing phosphorescant dust over useless husbands with rapped knuckles.

“Anyone seen…wotsisname?” asked whoeverheis. Silence.

Sardines drove by in Hansom cabs traveling to Mamungkukumpurangkuntjunya, where Le D pees, showers and sleeps.

Windmills of Callirrhoe while calling peeps were blown over by solar winds. Zeus flew down the barmaid’s décolletage two times two times two times a circled square within a yellow figurine of Schroëdinger’s dog and Pavlov’s Cirque du Sanglier. Cannibal boy bands feed upon adulation, fomenting feral tweens with whiny holes, towards supportive relationships with carnal benefits and holy wine, of abysmal vintage (say, last week an angry squirrel, named Schopenhauer, quoted The Jeffersons theme, ad nauseam!

Torquemada trapped in Oz, planned a breakout dance number titled “Hit Me, Baby, But Only Once So Make It meaningful, but stimulating”, which racked up unrequited erotic expectations that Viagra sponsored. Viagra’s opera, 'Pallyhackchee Mycoxafloppin" was a veritable last straw poll’s pulled pole–“humma humma humma nyuck nyuck nyuck.” So it goes onward and upward to infinity and, L’aristocratie Bordelo members discount coupon good for one while supplies last; dismemberments half off. It’s a Phallusy that Wisconsin icicle, is the pseudonym and acronym of


which spelled WISCONSIN(s)


is common enough to cure poison-ivy.


The metronome…stopped keeping time and sung in dropped waistline trousers a timeless ditty about a feather, sliced rabbit droppings, and coefficients of linear blues, roadkill gumbo.

“Remember me to keep from finishing the blue pterodactyl. Alas I never will forget those palpations from Gwendolin, the Fairly Competent Oracle of Toledo whose magnificent red whiskers, surgically implanted tickled the fancy ketchup catching up with the downdraft of rancid bacon fat sorbet, Gwendolin used to lubricate her palpating brother’s bike chain and sprocket casing.

“Oi! You! Get of my cloudy urine sample. A highly corrosive secretion ate noisily, offending the ear and died. However murky the situation and snooki get, we’ll always have those who excell and those who who powerpoint will by stuttering owl’s longwinded utterances let nobody interject effectively whilst pooper scooping, hooping’ an’ whoopin’, tootin’ and cootin’.

Rumbustious free radicals battling oxidant insurgents with Rambotic imprecision, teeth and sweat, deployed antioxidant insurgency measures against perfidious pink hair gnomes, with gay abandonment issues. Hollandia Xaviera Gromgenchenko, III, Esq., D.D.S., masticated over differentiations, distinctions and extractions.

Exploration of canal routes blew Chlamydius astray. Centurion Gonorrhoearian Syphillisius withdrew prematurely, fearing disproportional procreative disadvantages premature insemination and inconveniently located teeth marks on door-jamb dripping strawberry preserves over snooki’s body! Pontious demanded satisfaction, honky tonk women and quantitative easing, pleasing, teasing, squeezing for Rumspringafest 1989, or Rumsfeldwake 2001/6 (both fantastic festivals), bequeathing nightmarish legacies to his armies. Sleeping was forbidden except on Wednesdays, notwithstanding contemporaneously countermanded exquisite-explicit-endowments of fitful shuteye…slumber was denied while everyone slept, expelling flatus prodigiously. Closing the dictionary, Molly said, “Stephen, us is through the worm hole.”

“Slappa ma thighs and call me the, ‘Hoolakamoocha Man’ ----on a stick.”

Enigmatic Leopold, sniggered, waggled, hiccupped, and hurled chunks that effervesced spectacularly, before combining flatus in synesthesic extravagances engendering multifarious creative investment opportunites somnambulists’s inter-sensory, semi-hallucinogenic drug induced space-madness 70s-style porno basslines? “Haallleeelujaaaah sinners!! Embrace that old-time music drowning in static.

Strunk & White (insert emote here) clearly says commas separate reality from that which we create for ourselves.

Man’s quest for looser, drunken, women, baring their coccyges and coaxing bears and bearing Cokes mixed with rum Miguel’s roommate made stiffly at gunpoint. Meanwhile, Miguel was pondering his predicament and dickering with his preponderance.

Protuberances protubed, predictably, primarily for frolicky fun and finger licking suspicious spousal romances in the basement, ‘Sadomasochistic Paraphernalia’ Dept. bestselling item included: razor wired crotchless rabbit proof fence.

Subliminal sadomasochistic stimuli were available during prudish seminary studies based in logic and mystical indulgences.

Manual of Sadomasochistic Transmissions and Mufflers kept things quiet.

Papal Nuncio, Rasputin belched out profanities while dancing to ave maria reggae with his sainted sidekick, Lavrentiy Beria who was wearing a string vest, diaphanous crotchless underpants, and barbed wire electrified jumpsuit apparatus, with ruby slippers and latex cock-holsters.

The Lubyanka ballroom’s 3rd shift janitor mopped up santorum while whistling, “I dream of genie,” (shades of (S)santorum), when he slipped surreptitiously behind the oversized enamelled lamp and insouciantly disrobed. Regrettably, dawn brought a less egalitarian schoolteacher with a pantload of ideas, useless beyond belief, but well-endowed nothingless.

“ATTENTION! EVACUATE! ATTENTION (crash, smoke, fire),” barked Barney belatedly, as inconsolable crowds stampeded through the green room, grabbing toilet paper and Vic-k’s homemade pies, and understandably so a pink smock with negative contiguity blamed the paparazzi for the lewd misrepresentation of Stanislavski’s stunning Stuttering Study of Hot Yoga. Stanislavski protested profusely while pondering pragmatic recipes of peppered pork ‘n’ pickles.

Petrograd’s bucolic vistas left a stunning body count today, completely obscuring the path to Dostoevsky’s favorite pawn shop.

Avoiding dead bodies is surely overrated as a cathartic, whereas dead chickens should never…EVER be avoided—unless properly served with fava beans and clever puns like “Carton of pawns and Seafood saws held cocks’ pullets by their unmentionables,” as in, ‘**************’. Fowl Language Prohibited. “Squwark! Squawaaaaarkk!! Squwark!” rejoined tongueless Schkree in response to Nabokov’s obdurate disposition. Nabokov flailed his workman, Manuel Laber with a hot, demeaning, excoriating diatribe. Manuel loved it when Nabokov forgot that thingumajig, whatchamacallit, whatever it is, for crocheting his crotchety old mother’s kinky crotchless knickers.

Meanwhile, while Manuel whittled wooden whistles, whistling whilst whittling at Border Patrol Coffee ‘N’ Donuts.

“Uno mas mocha y una desomunal tiramisú por favor.”

“Papers, please,” meowed Kitty DelaGato, unsheathing her beefy schwartzenegger love child.

“Hasta la vista, mamacita,” muttered Manuel’s cousin Manual Labour Hernandez de Chaucer, Canterbury tour guide and narrador extraordinario. Nabokov despised him and his nymphomaniacal predilections. Nonetheless, Lolita urged reconcilliation through interpretive dance, mutual masticatory indulgences, and elaborately drawn aromatically oiled baths. Laber and Labour looked longingly—leeringly, with malice aforethought, and Alice ‘aforethat. Alice reciprocated, sashaying scantily-clad across the bordello’s malapropism strewn, solecistic pothole riddled public thoroughfare. “Just ass is served,” Carlo informed Dean, “Monday, but Tuesdays?” Moriarty feigned indifference. “Tuesdays they serve hed-on-istic reckless abandon.”

Sal stroked his voyeuristic, perfidious nib and said, “Mondays, I don’t like!”

  • Y’ fearful jesuit.

“Tuesday’s just’s bad but. Grammar in utero is strangely Joyceianesqueishly, Finnegansly indecipherable!” howled inconsolable Ginsberg from his cage aux follex dillettánsok; incompétents incultes filliszeusok sock fetishist. “Red Rum Diary” is best left unred unless heavily ‘medicated’.

Molly fondled Gonzo’s king sized lizard. Bloom looked away. Cassady looked askance, hearing distant drumbeats.

Tom, Tom, Tom, Skibbidybop, Bop, twing-awopbopadoolop awop-bap boom.

“Tutti Frutti! Oh no! Oops. Um…I’ve gorra nedache “Fart, whistle, POP!”

That’s when a petrified, acrobatic labordoodle felt the urge and howled, “Howwleeluuujaaahh?”

“Get off me hearties! Avast, ye scrivening scurvy scum muck, from depths hitherto unplumbed by twelve dancing midgets and one humongous mincing gadget. However just before the beginning had begun, the prebuttal prejected, and ensuing inertia catapulted chaos catatonically while bovinal scatalogists looked through leavings. Typhaeus typhoeus rolled his dung dinner into little balls before catpulting them like flaming bales of excoriating critique on postmodern footnotes skimming the surface of Eruditus’ ‘DUNGMANIA’ whilst blowing chunks last night’s dinner.

Salty dogs sailed toward roaring 40s. El Nino’s contumacy belched out vastly conflicting seismological radioactive particles of hinterwäldler poopendoole opfergaben Gunter glieben glauben globen Received Pronunciation notwithstanding the valiant effort of HerrMeisterDummKopfKrumpen WasdieWas, floundered on inappropriate Tina Fey misappropriations of synthetic heroin and caramel corn.

Chapter 2

“Don’t eat that!” said Delilah. Samson’s jawbone ached, unlike the asshattery going on around here. Nobody moves like Salome in mysterious wayside lowlife hostelries when forty hirsute douchbags screamed, “Gerremoffyer!”

“Yes?” responded Guierre.

“Yeeeeaaaahhhh!!!,” Chomsky concurred, thrusting his drinking partner, Condalisa into the bordella’s d’Sade themed blow up furniture with shackles and Dr. Ruth joyfully kicked the bucket, first name Mister.

Condi whipped Ruthy’s potatoes until creamy, Fluff-y and scrumptious and Sin-fully delightful—best, bar none…zo viciously moreish. Mark my words a nominal fee angers penny pinchers and sea navigators.

Rob hammered relentlessly upon Mr. Hughes’s jelly glazed nipples-s rubber duck. See Jane spread her antimacassars across her antipasto thighs while Dick plunges all his assets into Government gilts—a Spotty investment. Amen t’that thlippery, thlobbery thnaggleputh impugned Duckbill Platypus massive vile girth!

“Ageist shrivel vim and vinegar,” misspoke Tatiana, “Nadir vegan salad’s on sale at Rumpelstiltsin’s emporium. Markus Correllian spat his Vick lozenge a phonomenal distance, causing great kerfluffle. Yobbos barged about blundering in the small intestinal cavity’s pro-biotic thingummijig used for fissuring, fracking and forgetting. Frawhatathingy? Can’t remember my own name. Winged wassack, init? What’s my underwear?” asked Kitty Carlisle, pointing to her dominatrix attire, “doing on Kingdom Hall’s Celibate-whorey Hallo-weenie Roast?”

“Strumpet!” shouted Pastor Peter Piper picking his nose.

“Floozie!” Kitty cattily corrected, causing Corinthians quotations 1:13:4, Uncleaneth underwear undermineth all amourous adventures defusing deliciously delusional pulchritudinous Pauline procrastinators. Now pay upsilon and choose, beta, theta, zeta, sleezy, dopey, grumpy, eenie, meenie, miney, prancer and dancer.

Chapter CCXCIX

“Why am I?” pondered the flyer pasted on Descartes’ refrigerator door. The clock struck one, the mouse was morose, “Wassamatta u? Gotta no mousse-a to spruce-a?”

“Yoobetchya!” Dessie mimicked, parroting the moose outfoxing a squirrel-gun toting ex-half-governor, doggedly bullshitting plebs through bulletproof glass, burning bags of canned laughter, or landed catfish, or coddling rotten eggs green, with hamful e-coli bacteria.

Momma zombies sambaed and fornicated, gymnasticatedly masticating on forkfuls on putrefying salami sticks and buttered shanks of marbled Kobe beefaroni, and imitation genuine processed cheese curds and whey along came a spy, dallying about with her muffet at her buffet, Warren from Berkshire had a way and a plantagenet family tree.

No branches branched more thoroughly than the Apple tree’s Job of it (or lack thereof).

Another hour looms like clouds, threatening the gentle banality of clichéd aphorisms interrupted by the Thoreau’s of passion fruit, juice form, groan Wilde and Pickwick Paper wrapped for Princes, Paupers by Lady Windermere visiting from Katmandu via Xanadu’s yak-station, Nanu Nanu Shazbot.

“Morky…mindy…morky”, muttered Kubla Khan the Ancient Mariner’s Second Coming mantra, “Oobbidooo I wanna friend like melliflous Mabel Syrup and Chuck Berries with Cream.

“Haalleeelujaaah! Good Morning, Vietnam with tunnels underneath Vietnam, where tunnels went hither and to underneath Vietnam, Hanoi Hilton Nightmares and day-mares whinnying and Ho-Chi Minhying when burning monks laminated crotch guards on scotch guarded, soft fluffy rugs imported from China Miéville’s junk shop items once loved by Pé’Quod’s Queí’quég whonne hronrade oferseglede. Indeed, why not blow Bubbles in your sister’s bathroom? Or in her brothers?


Oh what was I? Oh bomo bro rock for president of malodorous students obsessed with tinkling the ivories.

Cesspitulia and Septicum Tankus thumbed their noses, bit their thumbs, affecting ponderate poses with red roses, and tea cosies.

Sitting and spinning with slippery women…slippery…whippery women with wiggling wattles.

Gaitered goitrey gatekeepers gained gravely grotesque gravitas given guttural ghoulish grunts, groans gags, gargles, grabassing gently in great gratuitously greasy gloves, whilst pirouetting provacatively past panting pirates pasting portentous pamphlets prognosticating prevaricating proposals obfuscating outwardly obvious

Once upon a

n erroneous assumption

(painfully common hereabouts)

,I invaded Intelligentsia

with my rapier

sharp witticisms, and

rubber ball of

folksy humour, only

unbeknownst to all

You are sleepy…

the poisons have

wicked off the

enquiring nostril of

the last intellectual

, but, hitherto unknown

Vicks sinex spray

exploded explosively outward

, terminating this interminable

pointless rhetorical delinquency.