Wendy Wendy Oh God Wendy

Wendy Wendy Oh God Wendy                                   (387 words)



Jamed’s hand cut down severing the talk and it felt like and was observed to be the activation of one more of the ten thousand maniacally staged so unlike real life as multiple bad fictions talking saying in Jamed’s strained voice, Wendy, hold it, hold it a minute; oh God, Wendy, all at once my pecker burns mightily! Yes yes, pecker, yes, Wendy, I remember now being told someplace somewhere beware the place wherever it was; just know for sure that I have learned the hard way that you should not do what your wet behind the ears primary care medical man told you to, namely that when faced with impossibly stopped up eustachian tubes, squirt a whole sprayer of extra strength Afrin in your nostrils with your head tilted back, and the sharp hot chemical compound that can eat away an entire nasal septum if greatly abused as the consumer is advised not to do in big black lettering on the side of the sprayer will not do a damned thing for the eustachian tubes, but will seep down in your body orifices and arteries and veins and further down further until some hours after the Afrin was sprayed, the first urination since the start of this journey will burn white hot heat burn so bad it feels like some form of barbaric deep jungle mutilation had been done to prepare the subject for a lifetime of increasingly painful sessions as the object of sadistic traditional sex rites; deep jungle deep jungle deep jungle right jungle love, oh sure, I’m better now Wendy! I too have heard that song!

Thank God, Jamed. I thought you had gone all Fat Guy Goes Nutzoid! Hey, let’s switch this boat to the overdrive easy-cruise shift position and tool along in unison about how about twenty years ago we were going to rent that movie you just named, but we waited too long and it wasn’t until after renting movies had come and gone that we remembered it so, we resigned ourselves to the reality that we would never see it and the whole idea swept in a dusty rain of brittle fragments into the dark down the bottom of the trash can of the past—

Okay then, said Mother. Janie—have any more questions right now?

No, I don’t think so.

All right. Hey, there’s the remote. Switch on the TV.

TV cures everything..


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