—Yeah, well, good luck. The little bastard has been reading up on FISA exemptions and is convinced he’s found a perfectly legal way to wiretap his ex-girlfriends happy box—just so long as he routes the intel grab outside of the US by way of long-range carrier pigeons with GPS transponders duct taped to their knobskinny bird legs.
In one sense, it’s kinda creepy: a lonesome and jealous armadillo sitting in a closet criss-crossed with coat-hanger antenni, surrounded by a blinking maze of professional-grade audio receivers and hyperbolic mics—all on the off-chance of catching the sounds of squeaky lovebumping when the brazilian-waxed nethers of a slutty ferret collide with the readied manhood of her new salsa-dancing paramour; on the flip side, however, there’s something rather endearing about how determined the little fella looks—sitting there practically motionless in his serious chair, powerful Fostex T40 headphones pinning tiny pointy ears into finely-tuned receptacles of illicit mammalian slathergrinding…
You tell the little bastard to shut that whole fuckin’ thing down or my wife’s gonna get pissed! A gal ougtta be able to do a little slathergrinding without the whole world knowing about it.
TOO MANY ADJECTIVES!!!!!!
Well, you know–in absence of any armadillo dancing, you could always spot us some of the ferret porn.
Are you gonna put up any MP3’s?
Just askin’.
OMG, you keep blowing my mind. illicit mammalian slathergrinding, that’s hot!
Jeff, get help. Surely there’s another drug, somewhere. We’re your friends, man. We love you.
(Also, while you’re at the clinic, we can score some of that hi-tech gear from the closet.)
Slutty ferret?
Wasn’t Ferret Slutty a Faulkner character?
That’s it. I quit.
Or, before I start blogging again, I’ll just do more drugs.
TW: “cannot”, as in “I cannot compete with this. At least not without more drugs.”
As there was Brazilian waxing involved, the case could be made that her nether regions are themselves international territory. FISA wouldn’t apply.
A prose poem! By Jove, that’s a prose poem about ahorny armadillo!
Seriously.
Klonopin is like the Absinthe of the twenty-first century or something.
What do I need to fake to get this stuff?
This quote alone should win you a pulitzer.
BRAVO!!!
“slathergrinding?”
I must be getting old– I think I was one of the last people to find out about ‘tribbing’… and now this!
T/W:”part”- As in… “What part(s) are utilized when one “slathergrinds”?
It involves slathering and grinding.
Just like peppermints are made from peppers and mints.
If you look carefully at the type fonts, it’s obvious this post was typed on a circa 1972 Air National Guard standard issue manual typewriter. Where’s Charles Johnson when we need him?
Hold on just a minute there, buddy. You can’t do a Brazilian wax on a ferret. Where would you stop?
I smell a rat.
That could be descriptive of a whoooooole lotta action going on.
Bald ferrets smell just like rats, hung me up at first too.
Sooooo, we finally found out where the missing armor went…
Get the little freak some Sennheisers—those open back cans—and you’ll never get back to sleep. ‘Course, when he plugs in a set of expensive tube-driven Stax that came in the mail, you’ll know he’s running plenty of narcotic. It may be a front.
What?
The CarlGossBorg speaks volumes in a single word:
Elegant if unintended. CarlGossBorg, assimilate the Clouded Random Word Generator. It’s orbiting Neptune.
I like that.
Didn’t Squeaky Lovebumping take a shot at Gerald Ford?
That’s it. I’ve long suspected, but now it’s time you ‘fess up, “Jeff Goldstein.”
You’re Mark Leynerâ€â€the real ‘80s-’90s hilarious genius oneâ€â€and that concrete-chested midget writing unbelievably shitty bestsellers and being embarrassingly unfunny on Letterman is just some random Hoboken schmuck you’ve hired to play you in public so you can sit home and do drugs.
CONFESS! And sign my books!
Often the first sign of an infection.
I admit that “illicit mammalian slathergrinding” may be your best yet.
And that’s saying quite a lot.