on
10/19/2002
Writer's Note: The following are the author's notes from Modern British and Irish Literature on Tuesday the 15th.
Woolfe, Ginny
1882-1941
1912 - married Woolfe, freaked out
1927 - "To the Lighthouse"
Things suck big fat honkin' tits like moocows in the moonlight. On the plus side, there is no fucking Keanu Reeves. Beowulf dans le Danude; jam a cork up my nose, Howard Zin's cock fondle. Lilly flies from Gattaca on white roots -- stork-woman piss/crying away three flights of fruit flies' fucking arrowhead snarkswallop. Feed a bleeding Kricfaluski over porking talk talk talk...
Who's afraid of John Kricfalisi? Fooken tripod your hammily- bamily- scam, tip lipped genderbar. Finnigan, Mike, thou art my muse. meant, trouting your voodrig 'cross feminine nazi salut -- filters? -- gloss and trappings of grandeur. Billy, humping Christ but we barely knew 'ya.r.r...r.. . . Har. Drag -- dragabout, but I knew you. You stood with me. You knew me. Ooh Dumas, travel so high! Hahhh-h-h-h...
I would like to speak now on socialism and the merrits of solar power. Fluff! Pork and hoary. Jingling in your pingly rooftops, Kant betold. Jewery, and the long foreign slope betold. Wither foreward, man. I feel for you, Twohey stork. Kabalist, misdirected following cerebrum. Chen and shotgun shells. Enlighten me, Barely Legal codhead. Tumbly-bumbly fork -- how did you get so red, mein Hoefler Mikey? The royal Fin is silent. Can we be so lucky through 289? I could- Cut. Listen. Cutted. [...]
[...]You expected better, and for your sins you got it. Alkaly-balkaly, like a language tape. And a secret smile. Game predominance. The win perhaps before the pieces fall in far Phoenecian Turkey? I doubt but very much that the queen of the dark taboulli. Whosoever grate their Sophine. Lambda flock with -- gears and grimes -- palorpful-- peace. There's stays enough as is. Trad. Dat. Don't go crazy. Jam.
Touch the Toast