The Mezunian

The only way to win is through scratches on a cat’s chin.

E’en if duller than a non-Italian plumber, you can’t have a book that smells like fresh rubber.

My mental span’s variety spans wider than the types o’ trees, so now that I’m too naturally coked-out to read the ventures o’ a recovering alcoholic in book clubs, I’ll bug you, insipid Muse, whatever vapid, abstract meaningless you’re meant to represent. Sorry. That’s bitter graphite. Should store that deep in the kegs.— No! You […]

Todas las canciones: unas son nuevas conocidas, y unas son las viejas parientes cálidas que has olvidado, mezcladas con fragmentos de muchos voces de dibjuos animados, y absurda microficción con Old Navy y la vodka #9 de obreros en el papel de protagonistas. Y entonces te dan alguna mierda extraña en las medianoches de fin […]

When all o’ the towels fall off the bottom rung, a piece o’ relief comes from a butter cracker on the tongue.

Las tazas son grasientas, y no son cierto si yo debiera sentirme triste o alegre. The cups are greasy, & I don’t know if I should feel sad or happy.

Tasting the clouds’ gorgeous tears is the only elixir that makes mine clear —objective, scientific proof that happiness is a 0-sum game.

& this time I’m eating the whole banana.

«That’s right: I neglected to wash my mitts this time— That’s right: I neglected to wash my mi— —glected to wash—» You’ve already played that tape, Jacob; maybe it’s time you bought a new plush —1 without stuffing sputtering out o’ its stomach. I’m not here to clip your wing; I only want to refine […]

Mientras todavía hay crema haré magdalenas. While there’s still cream, I’ll make cupcakes.