^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^OKAY!////////iWASgonnaTRYgraphicsBUT
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\COULDN'Tfigure................

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	!

           HERE IT IS! YOU!


                                                             WELCOME!

     to me woild of constant beauty.. tis the trip, and windows be washed

Now. Oh! uh......

	THE FIND LINE|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||


                        Okay. In the right class? Uh, forgot my book.


			Okay, here it's. Er, let's worry 'bout intro.s. First time for any of me doing any-a this, so be hospital-total. E-mail me at FindLine@ix.netcom.com (reminder? oh, all right.. what a silly bunt) if you've got praises, abuse, advice, cash, need stuff for your own inferior zine, cash, nude pictures of ladies you know or store bought, checks that fall when you drop them, comments on the stuff which for the most part is me own, cash, grunts 'bout mine lacker of credible layout? (tough ___!, go on, pick out someperun tough yerself..), and who is me? Well, I's been pub.ed in zines from AArtvark to X-ray, and all Quarterlies have banned me from the pub game. If anyone knows ANY
		way for me and mine to get a buck and/or 2 for [insert naughty word here] like this, do the e-mail thing
	or get in touch, by
				Ben Ohmart
				115 Croyden Lane
				Apt. D
				Syracuse, NY 13224
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"The Paris Review is thoroughly absorbant" - Blackadder V, on the john.


 		OH! Anyone in Syracuse who can get me a list of local (315) BBSs?
    ==I will be here all day and I will wait for YOUR call.......

                                                                                 AND NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!

OOff with the shoe##################

----------------eat here-------------------------------------------

                                                      COKE CLASSIC



	Year was 2933 and the air auto was replaced back by the gas auto when it was found that air was circulating even more pollution into itself, but it hardly mattered since Jtoe was a footer by choice and profession anyway. He arrived at his five foot race, romantically entitled The Short Distance Handicap Ramp Challenge, sponsored by a major soft drink, just in time to see the Especially Olympics face off. The ones on crutches for the whole had a better time than all the wheelchairs that kept rolling back. It was a sight enough to psych Jtoe up for another clever win.
	Gun off, the five guys in a line raced up the ramp like thunder, invisible but still an amazing  achievement, and the one on the far left in red, tattooed in the coupons of a bulk rate mail sorting agency that paid his way in, was disqualified for lightly touching the handrail, and Jtoe found it an easy first place.
	Sears' charge commercials, book signings for an unauthorized bio on his life, a record contract for pre-determined hit singles, plus all the women he could eat came from that final win, and Jtoe forced the press to believe that it was the time for retirement talk. He bought an apartment complex  in the heart of Macon, Georgia, knocked out a few walls and pretty much spent the heat of his middle 40s youth in party seclusion, sucking the sweet silicon from depleting women's breasts. Before he was 51, he'd never considered the quality of conscious that could come from going without and giving less fortunate runners the with. 
	He rented out the largest gym room the Z, the Y being bought out long ago, had to offer and began casting for the needy, sick, gamy or just broken hearted, that usually went unnoticed to the rest of the world because emotions never seemed as dramatic. The white men, Jtoe felt, were mostly taken care of. The blacks, or The Fairly Hung as they were politically called in most forms of public communication now, had had their share of pay back, so the old runner with the money was looking for an Asian if he could find something suitable.
	A young woman, small of breast, full of mind, presented her application, called herself Maiy, and simply, in a voice long rehearsed, told the story of how she couldn't find a job and felt hollow about it. It was that word "hollow" that got her on the short list; the fact that there were 1207 others wading in those papers might've dampened her humbled spirits had she known.
	Jtoe was picking out cucumbers from a green Alaskan's, once gassed by a government secret project and now mute, stand, when he noticed Maiy, in a rented black taxi, spiriting by the road, honing bullets at his head without a gun. The sight of needing symbolism was enough to keep Jtoe from not crying, washing the lettuce off below him for the first time.
	Maiy was not only on the final list of ten who would have their living expenses paid monthly, this done so that the money Jtoe was using would actually go to their needs instead of bottles, packs or crotches, but as Jtoe got to know the tiny Asian, he quickly fell in love with the woman who'd had to work hard all of her life, and they had as many children as times he'd cared to go inside her.    	
     	Maiy couldn't get out of the habit of planting and digging up potatoes in the back yard, while Jtoe would be out trying to act in the few fiction tv shows left. He'd be happy almost every day during the summer when things were filmed, would come home, and they'd jump into bed, or pool, or soft earth, and do a kind of love that would be unnatural to any other lovers. Not that they were doing wild things, but the tenderness that he displayed toward her might've had a sharper edge toward another, through lack of devotion.. She might not have enjoyed the thrust that a Fairly Huge would hurt her with, being a small person and used to the perfection of her mate's unendowedness. It would sometimes last for hours, the penetration nothing more than a soft contrast to the tearing up eyes of both when he would hold her, still hard inside, and they would unquestion the superiority of relationships past and forbidden.
	At morning coffee and corn muffins, the seven children stirring up the breeze through the private peach grove, Jtoe asked, "Feeling?"
	Maiy would shrug and dip a knife into jelly. She never got tired of the simple things. "What time will it be? Tonight."
	Jtoe followed her example. "Pregnant yet?"
	Maiy became very shy, almost scornful to the ground that saw her face. Jtoe lifted the chin up. He saw the wonder of freedom in her eyes, the terror of uncertain pleasures mixed in her silent answer. She was aloof in a way that cried for understanding combined in his resentment.
	He flung her chin away, feeling a great evil. And Maiy took up a spade ready for work. Her hand went easily over to the tulip beds. "I've been having them. They make our garden grow."
	With a delayed horror, Jtoe rushed to the beds and woke up his sleeping children. He remembered with a foul contempt those times Maiy had requested her sex a different way, and she was a masteress of sheet folding to hide her secrets. 
	The figures were still encrusted with rich dark dirt, white seeds all over too, decomposing moistly as if the sun were angry at their withdrawal. Jtoe looked at her with a new kind of hatred, an original kind because he never thought he would be having fantasies that involved her eyes being ripped from her, ripped from himself because he couldn't see, see the answer. He was shaking in his war; his elbow inching back, perhaps he was going to hit her. 
	"Don't we have enough?" she said, crying and wiping her clear black hair to expose the fullness of scarlet eyes. 
	Jtoe looked quickly at the litter they'd brought forth into the weighted world, and he instantly thought to the future. The love between them, sticky that would evaporate when the children had sense enough to listen to sounds, but not near enough to knock before entering unlocked doors. The soft earth would become a thing tread by teens looking for dropped car keys. He labored hard on his wife's firm body: drying up as a sacrifice to a  noble family spirit that would continue to delay them by a year, then another year, then another; then slowly Jtoe replaced the humus.

<><><><>><><><><<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><<>

                                                My Poem, The Ingredients Label


I turn dial to raise product.
I apply Propylene Glycol, water,
Sodium Stearate, Pentadoxynol-200,
fragrance, Acrylates Lopolymer, Triciosan
to my underarm and FD&C Blue No.1,
FD&C Green No. 3, D&C Yellow No. 10
continually keep me fresh after I
replace cap after use. I use daily for best results.
But what the hell's fragrance?

#@$^&&&&&&****&^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

                                                      BOUGHT COURSE
(1 man, 1 man's voice, 1 woman's voice, a voice)
	

	(MAN enters with a small cassette player. All the stage is empty 
	except for a single chair. He sits and switches player on. 
	Whenever MAN'S VOICE or WOMAN'S VOICE pauses on 
	the tape a bell will ring and MAN will repeat what he just heard
	stated. All voices on tape are animated almost to the point of 
	sound effects; it's just the authentic way of speaking this language)                             VOICE. - darling I thought you liked it that way. (Pause) Now we're going to leave the domestic phrases for the moment. And learn some basic travel sentences that will aid
you in going from town to town, or arriving and disembarking.
WOMAN'S VOICE. Grabble.
	(Bell rings, MAN repeats: happens after each  foreign phrase, as 
	stated above)
VOICE. Tickets.
WOMAN'S VOICE. Grabble. (Pause for bell and repeat) Bottle-bottle ftang. (Pause)
VOICE. Two please.
WOMAN'S VOICE. Bottle-bottle ftang. (Pause) Zimbobway whoo! nuthatch?                             VOICE. Can I have the key to the public lavatory?
WOMAN'S VOICE. Zimbobway whoo! nuthatch? (Pause)
MAN'S VOICE. Stick! Shacky-shacky.. (Popping sound. MAN tries to repeat, like a        beginner)
VOICE. Will this airplane ever take off?
MAN'S VOICE. Stick! Shacky-shacky.. (Popping sound. Pause)
VOICE. - Now we are going to move into more complex areas. These sentences may require a little more practice and concentration to acquire the proper pronunciation.
MAN'S VOICE. (Makes sound of machine gun) Aw-vulsion.. (Makes plopping noise) Hubba check parkay. (Pause)
VOICE. This passenger ship has a hole in it. Find me another. - Don't worry if you have trouble with this phrase the first time. Passenger ships are very hard to come by, and you
probably won't even use this phrase. 
WOMAN'S VOICE. Crankcase. Brazeer mention. Oo! (Makes farting noise) Splinkle.         (Pause)
VOICE. How much does your wife charge? For the donkey ride?
WOMAN'S VOICE. Crankcase. Brazeer mention. Oo! (Makes farting noise) Splinkle. (Pause. Next item: honks her nose) Want it want it want it tackle symph f.b.i. ma'am see-bunkle crosstown (Guitar chord) Michael Michael pungowa. (MAN tries to repeat but has trouble imitating the guitar chord, then forgets the rest)
VOICE. Yes. That is my real Visa card. Now don't try to fuck with me. I know where you live. You bastard. - Some of you may've had a little trouble with the last item. Let's repeat it. - Want it want it want it tackle (MAN repeats) symph f.b.i. ma'am see-bunkle. (MAN repeats) crosstown (Guitar chord) Michael Michael pungowa. (MAN repeats but gets stuck on guitar chord) Several of you may have had trouble with (Guitar chord) This sound is achieved by placing the tongue against the front of the teeth and pushing while imitating the sound. Or simply strumming a guitar, if one is available. If you need help with this section, please rewind the tape, and practice (Guitar chord) before moving on. The key of F is preferred. - Now. Let's move on. Here are some restaurant words and phrases that may be of help. Please note the pronunciation.
MAN'S VOICE. (Quickly) Clothing clothing in stay (Quick breaths) choo-cle-ca choo-cle batman ha ho he (Spraying sound) rubarb stick it saddle who! (MAN attempts this but doesn't make it all the way through)
VOICE. May I have some more ice, please? - Again.
MAN'S VOICE. (Slower) Clothing clothing in stay (Quick breaths) choo-cle-ca choo-cle batman ha ho he (Spraying sound) rubarb stick it saddle who! (MAN is more successful in repeating)
WOMAN'S VOICE. Negate (Sound of body falling) Splack! Num-num-num on ecroved erasure wobble stain (Long gasp. MAN tries but is immediately stuck with "sound of body falling")
VOICE. I did not order that. - Let's try that again, shall we? And pay close attention to (Sound of body falling) Although it is a hard dialect to master at first, please keep practicing, rewinding the tape if additional time is needed. Or if very frustrated.
WOMAN'S VOICE. (Slower) Negate (Sound of body falling) Splack! Num-num-num on ecroved erasure wobble stain (Long gasp. MAN succeeds; he's getting better at this)
VOICE. The following is an important tern you will need to learn and which is used a lot in this country.
WOMAN'S VOICE. Spiral ho! got to be - pla-thunk nobbin - sees-tide negate (Sound of body falling) Splack! Num-num-num (Long gasp) erasure wobble stain spiral ho! got to be.
VOICE. No, I said I did not order that. What the fuck are you trying to pull? - The phrase...
MAN'S VOICE. Spiral ho! got to be
VOICE. is the present tense of the collective verb "try to pull", meaning "what scam is this?" You will see a lot of it in your travels throughout the country, so you'd better learn
to recognize it. Let's continue.
MAN'S VOICE. Sop-bang! Sap-oooo! Bee-kay number two ben kublin ha ha! (Starts laughing. Stops) E.P.A.
VOICE. Can I have the check? I want to get out of this place. - Be careful where the stress is placed on..
MAN'S VOICE. Sap-oooo!
VOICE. Because a similar vowel stress such as..
WOMAN'S VOICE. Sap-oooh!
VOICE. Can mean - Can I have the check? I plan to leave a big tip. - Now let's work on a few shopping phrases that will come in useful.
WOMAN'S VOICE. Spifit spifit spifit spifit spifit spifit spifit spifit spifit spifit spifit plop.                            VOICE. What time is it? - You'll notice the..
MAN'S VOICE. Plop.
VOICE. Means "please" which you learned earlier on this tape. It is usually not translated into English, merely inferred by its common usage, as the inhabitants here are more polite. Let's go on.
WOMAN'S VOICE. Eat me tripod sum sum lyrics ooglesnort.                            
VOICE. How much is that dress?
WOMAN'S VOICE. Eat me tripod sum sum lyrics ooglesnort. (Pause) Eat me tripod sum sum lyrics.
VOICE. How much is that pair of pants? - Let us just continue. And feel free to rewind the tape. You bought it, after all.
MAN'S VOICE. Swish! Switch stubble stubble (Burps) gosh, ho! capo for dinner.
VOICE. How much is that in American money?
MAN'S VOICE. Strab (Hiccup)
VOICE. That is too much in American money. Now how much is it really?                             MAN'S VOICE. Soft soft umpire viola ahgwa artic circle. (Shouts twice) Poo.. (Laughs) Poo..
VOICE. Who are you trying to put through college on prices like these? - This is the end of side one. Please turn the cassette over to learn more helpful Gibberland phrases. (MAN does and starts second side) Hello and welcome. (Any silly translation the WOMAN'S VOICE wishes to say) To the second side of Perot's Gibberish in seventeen days. (The most insane Gibberish is given with the force of a true native by the adept WOMAN'S VOICE as lights fade)


THE END

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

                 Have You Ever Eaten A Cold Ant?


The leaves fell on my MR2
and dented the hood in a bad foreign accent.
I tried to sing but forgot the words to everything.
So I took off my panties, tightened the elastic
in my underwear and jumped outside at 2:43 pm.
The weather was beautiful and the sky bass-deep gray.
I took an orange from the man selling empty 409 bottles
and lifted it to the ground! until small bottles of paint
rolled from my eyes. My dream was sleeping
so I didn't dare to wake it.
Then comes the ant, picking at its leftovers.
I waved and blew him away.
I didn't expect that and he didn't expect me, so we went dutch at Hardees.
We sat on the wall (he, by the door and kept getting squashed) and ate fries
and sweet things.
I wiped my arms on a napkin afterwards, reciting my favorite Macbeth 1-liner.
We laughed. Cried. Told dirty dramas. And while I dried all of my eyes,
he just walked away and left me to just walk away.


()()()()()()()()()()()()		()()()()()()()()()(?)	)()()()()()())()()()(()()()()()(

                                                                    WWV

                                                                CHAPTER 1




     
	The slipshot slid and Constable Shitzochowitz, engaged in a rather lengthy throatal examination towards the bottom of a warm Sunbeem (ale) mug, fell in a mangled gaggle to his wonderful death. Pre-morning services were held beneath the self-same 32nd Bridge amidst a sea of groggy relief mourners (the second wave of grief to an almost impossibly popular man). Several were muddied as the Vicar slung coquettishly the bits of earth on the standing room between he and his business.
	"May he finally know peace," the man of cloth growled to  the multitude of ears; serving as a double purpose, also to himself, as it was the last hour the Supreme Rev. Buttersmilk of one of the Almighty's ever-lasting days had to look on caringly for his pay.
     	The final wave of the hand, and Buttersmilk was  scuttling his way along, eager images of hot feet and tea crowding his gracious brain. No more kneeling (even if it  was 
carpet); and several kinds of shortbread to ponder over. All as the third wave launched a solemn assault against the dull orange coffin and produced enough flower power upon the
 already over-ladden tombstone, hulking in the center lane to irk only turning vehicles, to produce more than several fine bottles of perfume.

	The man with the smart-made paperbag briefcase emerged from without, a look of gleaming ineptitude in one eye, the other searching for the Colonel. He noticed the large white man with the tall white mustache cleverly removing butterbeans from a heavy tin cup and hiding them spyly in his great disciplined mouth. This was achieved several times 
before the sharp ring of a superior officer's burp clattered against the unseen, but white also, visitor.
	"Sir, yes, sir!" screamed the man, thinking the exact sound a direct order for rigidness.
  	The mustache and the face it belonged to were shocked beyond all reconnaissance, and the lips cried out "What th -!" before regaining the instant composure as only an 
expert military man could. He hid the delicious can and licked his ring finger that removed the collected hint from his upper lip.
   	"You said?" barked the mustached man.
    	Taught to reply mindlessly, the man repeated, "Sir, yes, sir!"
  	The large man couldn't help repeating his meal, then spoke. "Colonel Snippenworthe speaking toward you, green lad.  Out with the sentences!"
     	"Sir, yes, sir! Lieutenant-Major Sargent reporting for immediate transfer, sir!" The case he carried was beginning to slip and soil in his sweaty, haired hands.
     	"Can not, sir, you scream with more intense authority?" the Colonel investigated. "From past safety measures, not a spot of glass, looking, drinking or otherwise, is allowed
 within these fabric walls, soldier! I hope you have none about!"
     	"No, sir, no!"
     	"Man came in just last week, on the weekend, damnit!, and pilfered the exact center of my toothbrush glass. Like a dirty scoundrel!"
     	"Sir, yes, sir!"
     	"That's right!"
     	"Sir, yes, sir!!"
     	"Now you're letting it out!"
     	"Sir, yes, sir!! Lieutenant-Major Sargent reporting for immediate transfer duty, sir!!!"
     	"Sargent?" asked the Colonel.
     	"Lieutenant-Major, sir!"
     Colonel Snippenworthe pondered on the tottering of insanity and searched with the fullness of lungs for answers. "!!!!" he blasted.
     	"Sargent, sir!! As one of those Darins from Bewitched! Sir!!"
     	"I've no time for the enjoyable, criminal practices of witchcraft, you squalid person. Excluding a time or two with the wife, it's strictly un-Armyan, disfashionable, completely
 no-go, hold the soap, I think I shan't slip on any of this today thank you very much!"
     	Sargent's eyes gleamed as he beheld the image of madness.
     	"Squalid little momma's girl, aren't you down here with your poof of an appearance and sand-shackles on your shoes, way out of date and with a lust on your stomach, I can tell by your face, that would send out for a Chinese dialect of nourishment at any precise given chance!"
     	There was a pause so thick you could park a cracked oil tanker on it.
     	The Colonel screamed, "And we'll have none of that!"
     	"Sir, yes, sir!"
     	"Are we clear on that?"
     	"Sir, yes, sir!"
     	"Are we?!"
     	"Sir, yes, sir!" Sargent repeated; beginning to be a man called hoarse.
     	"Are we?"
     	"Sir, yes, sir!"
     	"Do you promise?!"
     	"Sir, yes, sir!!!"
     	"- Right; off you go then."
     	The dumbfounded Sargent could only remain immobile. The beans called and the Colonel was waiting to answer alone.
     	"Dismissed!"
     	"But sir, I -"
     	"I repeat! -"
     	Lieutenant-Major Sargent took his case and tottered from the tent. He finally noticed its bright blue color which had escaped recognition at first. He surveyed the sights ahead of him: wasteland. To his right: a wall of violet thorned flowers, the petals littering the area from Mess to Garbage-Such-Detail. To the left: the hospital, still ringing soft 
echoes of "Ruby Red Dress" in cheer-seeking chorus.
     	The man took the southern route and began to paper his new pad with out of date Miss pin-ups and various secret Army documents containing requests for more bedpan lubricants.

    	At 6800 hours the human known to intimates as Mouse woke his legs, then proceeded by disciplined military fashion onto chest, shoulders, and finally face and brain. The latter  wasn't to yield lightly once dreams had promised more fulfilling lands if given ample moments to catch the anatomically spirited woman naked from clothes. His prick was up and doing precision exercises long before the toes were set to Charleston against the bugle boy who jazzed all up to the streak of swift "Apple Blossom Time" however.
     	"Right. What's all this?" demanded the permanently tanned sub-private Minston Querth, Assembler of Duties from company to rank to further company, and "sole Toleration Officer in the area of sexual intercourse between military personnel where one of the said parties is said to be missing."
    	Mouse looked about the tent, an order of perfection by any standards, even the King's own, and wiped the cancerous smile from his playful lips as if it were a cockroach in heat.
    	"What's that?"
    	The finger threateningly pointed out a small tin of crab cleverly disguised as a lamp switch. The false cover instantly overturned with a gentleless prod and the moist  Frenchman (on both sides of his father) was forced into explanatory utterings.
    	"How'd that grow there?" Mouse denied.
    	Sargent looked up from soiled, green onion woven undies, and placed his head back into the mold of the pillow, awaiting a sunnier tune.
    	Querth was little annoyed by the untruth but much peeved at the lack of any degree of intelligence.
    	"Doesn't grow, Mouse," the sub-Private grimaced. "You know the ban of meats. You should pray to the Lord, our God."
    	"I know who he is."
    	"I eject, how dare you!" It was more of a question but as Mouse was less of an answer, the only thing to bruise the lightening morning was the silenced, still air of the
 thematic chirpings of the various waking sand-crickets rising through the clustered camp now that the concert was off.
    	"I'll have that," explained Sub-Private Minston Querth, and he seized the petite metal container and withdrew in a semi-automatic way outward.
    	Mouse then contemplated on socks, but resolved himself to chipping away the soap flakes between his athletic toes for good head-washing materials.
                             
	"Stand up!"
 	The entire company of St. Barnsdale-in-the-Wood kept up its brief appearance of an elite fighting force, though all eyes glued to what called itself "lunch" on the plates below.
  	"Wait for it!" added the Colonel. There was rabbel yipping in the stomachs of all, as from the canteen a collection of 38 Special's songs put the green and brown into appropriate dinner-time ambiance.
   	Finally came the famous line, "At ease!" and butts were once again molded into plaidly blush and granny smith apple deck chairs.
   	The Colonel, full of rations and rational "good show"s thought it best to pepper the salty men through their sweet and sour chicken.
  	"Men!" he shouted. "This is a time of great need. The entire R division of blue-plated tanks and machine-armored hand-gliders is to leave this establishment in a period of
 two hours time. Corporal Quel and Mr. Thompson-Zeldebang of the law firm of Servitel, Thompson-Zeldebang and Stickle-swam will be leading the first aerial assault, providing cracking coverage to our boys in bravery. Honest lads! Straight fellows, tending a bit toward the right when a healthy woman's concerned. But that's neither here," this is where he paused. "Nor there. Our water surprise, as no doubt you've all been briefed, apart from those of you who don't yet know, is to be led by the Irish nationalist Wiliam Shakespeare.
 That is Wiliam with one L. Rather than Bill with two wives at home from our own E company. We shall be sending up before them, ocean-riders I like to call them, a swarm of giant bats, complete with the latest radar." The slurping of the men's simulated cocoa stimulated the man in command to illuminate. "The Right Honorable Rev. Smidgeon Catchpolt will lead his tanked up squadron through waters, with a sharp turn towards the BMG Mountain Range and on from there hopefully only coming up to catch the breath at twice on the outside to the predicted outcome of St. Brothelmule's Street." He waited 
for unadorned applause. Someone burped; another harmonized.
     
	He continued: "Cardinal Rattigan and Privates Johnstonstone and Cardboarde, and 2nd Major Wooley will discriminate the meals accordingly. This is important! God
 save the Krauts!!"
     	"For us!" the men cheered. A group of bitches (dogs) from the North Wing Refuse Center howled their interested approval. All eardrums were starved for greater, elated
 nourishment.
     	"Right!" yelled the Colonel. Unfortunately, that was it. Apart from an old Tone-Loc tape someone must've inadvertently slipped the radio station, during these last anxious hours.
     	The soldiers finished their meaty substitute meals then all went back for Pet ice-cream, feeling it could be the last hours they'd ever in their lives have with assorted
 girlfriends, but that these Pets would have to suffice.
     	The services for Honor Hour, in which a host of ex-soldiers were given concise radio reincarnations in an acquired tasteless "This Is Your Death", professionally 
segmented with aspirin commercials, could be audibly perceived through the airy compound, and the jaded grunts and moans of frayed two-mile jaunts, T-R7 controlling, and Wilheim sausage preparing techniques when one is forced to survive on wits and Marks alone were moving from something soft to seething.

     	Sargent was busy modeling the handmade socks, a recent present from a bewildered Mouse, grafted from the latest style of Washington State potato sacks by the good volunteers of NOW (Natural Order of Windmills). That organization, comprised of all colors, sexes, but only one creed, that of Protestant Reformation, upheld more honor in the way of clothing particularly forgotten about parts of the warm body than the National Service ever attempted. Or so most thought.
     	The dyed brown shirt weaved painstakingly from clover patches that Sargent removed from his bag didn't fit.
     	"Hello, hello!" squeaked Sticky Buttles as his head peeped into the silly-shaped tent. On the outside were visible only three corners, on the inside was no more than a 
rounded mess; the same could be said of Sticky.
     	"What ho!" cried this person who found himself instantly wading through dry shirts and pillow cases soiled with Spam. "Is this a bugger I see before me?" he said as he did to 
anyone who attempted to be new before this man's eyes. And with that his laugh produced the same effect that cross-breeding pigeons and water buffaloes might. "I am sorry but 
you'll find yourself bunking with someone frightfully funny, as Olivier might've said."
     	"Are we to share this canvas abode?" inquired the young Sargent. "Olivia, the Nigerian miner?"
     	"You must be the Major-Sargent from Ineptitude Division!"
     	As it was almost correct, the officer decided to let it go to him. He noticed the Hebrew stylings of the Sticky's manly shoestrings, laced right to left, and wondered 
if the United Nations found that funny.
     	Not one to succeed with straight-forward questions, Sticky expelled, "And what language soil did your momma and pap originally dance upon?"
     	Sargent, tack in hand, hung his Camel's 1989 Miss Puff calendar to the blue cloth, deciphered what was asked and responded promptly, "United States."
     	"New boy!" Mr. Buttles jumped from the stretch of hard, foldable plastics, his bassinet, numbered as #39591 Sleeping Quarters, and ran to shake the cold fingernails of the new found celebrity. "Do you know Marilyn Monroe?"
     	"She's dead," answered the Lieutenant-Major.
     	"When did that happen?"
     	"Sometime in the twenties. I guess." He stopped to sniff his prolific collection of underwear, and stooped to admire several times the few three-boob bras which had voluntarily and casually been included in the shipment.
     	"That makes four shipmates in the army here. This tent!"
     	"Ta!"
     	"Christy hell."
     	Sticky shot himself a Passion-Flower cigarette, made fresh from the grounds of filched baking supplies, to remove his grief over his newly dead masterbative mistress.
     	"'Teng hut!"
     	The Colonel waltzed through the flap, and left a much-zitted guard picking his armpit by the "door".
     	"At ease!" the man in charge bellowed. Sargent never shuffled.
     	The Colonel gave Buttles the thumbs down sign and, after checking his breathing appendage for anything squooshy and hanging, he knew it was time for a brief AWOL. The boy by the door zipped his flap from the outside and the uncomfortable room was filled with the kind of lazy silence one could trip under. The weight of looming secret missions aired invisibly. The Colonel smelt of pork rinds; but that stopped him not 
from speaking.
     	"Major," started the tall man with the white eyebrows which didn't meet in the middle. " - "
     	"Sargent, sir."
     	The Colonel tried desperately to foil his Abbott and Costello flashbacks and succeeded. "Pick an honor and stick with it, man." He paused to light a bundle of weeds tied together with tamarack sap. "What we must discuss is of the most vital and damning importance to the cause of this country's freedom." He accidentally put his hand in the mound of multi-colored underwear, bent over to the Lieutenant-Major, and whispered, "You are our island man."
     	"What. - Sir."
     	"Come off it, G.I. Joe. Does your secret mission need any more explanation than that." The sound of a lark peeing in the outside world behind them made the Colonel turn his sun-bleached neck. "I'm already afraid to brush my teeth too often, frightened of getting bugs, being bugged!" Sargent was beginning to wonder if too many wars weren't stacked on his sloping head beyond the obvious insanity. "So you want me to repeat the insane plan!" He laughed mocking a mocking laugh that mocked his laugh. But after all, thought Sargent, we're taking every available man we can get for this one.
     	"The slipshot gave way. Now you're the only man on this soft green earth who can do the rousing deed!" He shushed himself and pretended to examine the bras in the filtered
 moonlight as a shadow slithered by. He too examined price codes with no false interest.
     	"Slipshot, sir?" asked Sargent.
     	"What! Who told you that?"
     	The shadow made a putrid puddle in the immediate area and shook away.
     	"I am curious to find out a few things, Colonel, because I've been getting these funny looks in mess."
     	"No wonder. Good Lord, man! Does your mamma still dress your big body? I believe you've switched overnight grips by accident."
     	"What am I to do?"
     	"Heaven knows, fellow."
     	A sigh gassed from Sargent's lips. "Why am I here?"
     	That burst the distraction balloon, and the Colonel furrowed a countenance so grave one could've planted a corpse in it.
     	"The island..."
     	"The island, sir?"
     	The ancient homme checked himself for bugs and listening devices. "There is an island off the coast of South Dakota, US, which requires the delicate handling of a first 
year doctor. That's why we sent for you, to London, here, to give you the snapping orders, what?!"
     	"There is no island off North Dako -"
     	"South."
     	"-ta's coast, sir."
     	"What?"
     	"It has no coast, Colonel."
     	The Colonel tried on the fitting sly smile he was saving for Nurse Slink-Patrick later that night. "That is just what your government wanted you to think." The Lieutenant-Major had to visualize his grandfather's premature demise to keep his great chuckles mute.
     	He continued: "You really think you transferred, son? You were chosen in top honors for this risk. But you may want to arm yourself with a good sack of steak tar-tar, as informants suggest that where the sharks leave off, the vicious golden retrievers commence."
     	"Who intimated a -"
     	The Colonel put his gloved fingers to lips and pronounced a baritone hack as his fingers were burned through the nails.
     	"This is all a joke, right?"
     	"It may be a joke to you," replied the Colonel, as serious as the night moors beyond their conversings which had claimed a total of thirty-one labs and a visiting Captain of the Safety Glasses to date, "but that's not much of a sense of humor. Now here's a joke -"
     	"Colonel! - What is my mission?!"
     	"You ship out tonight!" He removed the most tasteful undergarment for Slink-Patrick and sloppily snuck the remaining lingerie into his private Toyota bag. "You can
 read, I presume, heartily?"
     	Surprise struck Sargent snappily across the head. "Why, yes, but -"
     	"Well you are from America.." The Colonel handed him a soft valise wrapped in the paper used for chewing gum. "Your complete orders, mission, instructions, supplies, aspirin, train tickets, Reese Peanut Butter Cups, jock itch medication, maps, Bantam Classics to read if you get bored, igloo caplets for instant ice and beverage packets, silly
things, dehydrated soft serve yogurts, everything's in there. I feel sorry for us if the enemy got a hold of - but there you are. Every country on the third planet from the sun is
depending on this first step. I think you'll be too busy, so I did remove Kidnapped from your sack. I've never rea -"
     "I'll try not to let you all -" but too his salute was interrupted.
     "But don't open that bag until you're well and safety as matches on that train," the Colonel soberly brought forth.
     "But the tickets.."
     "See!" The Colonel started out, on two anticipatory legs, clutching the soft, abducted garters below his medals. "That's a proper joke! Stick with the British - we'll learn
you!"


----------------------------(How'm I doin'? Understand the novel excerpt?? wanna see more?.....Gimme an e-mail: BenO288910@aol.com)----------------------------

                                                    Let Me Get This Gay


You say you're going to let me have my intellegence at half the price of  normal
  commercials?
The overhead must be painful to adapt to, because early afternoon car spots
are just the glory of my boob. Where else, besides Hollywood, could I see the
  Fountain of You
guys putting on talent with a salad spoon and shoe horn, getting into it,
making me believe in the product. Not waiting for hope but giving it away
to me so I don't have to worry about horrific financing. Even my divorce
didn't give me cash back, for another model. These men of gods!
The printed page won't do the glory-seekers good, no! no matter how many scripted
reprints are available! No sir! I must see with mine own mind, and they too,
renounce all other patrons in favour of themselves. Yea! Because we won't 
have to walk to the promised land. They promised!

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%++++===========

                                     The Paperback Who Came To Dinner


He said to me: "the only thing in this life worth a dollar is the thing marked 50 cents.
And if you doubt me, your children will grow up with painted toenails. And good luck
Finding 'natural color' nailpolish. But don't worry about your grandkids, lord knows
Everything skips a generation. I did."
And then he barfed on the already green rug.
"But boy! Put down that book while I'm listening to you. What?
You say I don't treat you with the kindest regards? The X-mas card kind?
It's cause I love your fat ass. And I'd love to just spit all over you with kisses.
But my pancreas isn't what is. It's what it used to be. Because the only thing
Absolution buys is absolutely nothing. Even if you forget, just remember.
I love you. Men don't say things like that so I'll speak in a real high voice.
But you close your eyes and imagine. I love you." And he spat blood on my contacts.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!huh?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                              Joe Christ's Custom-made Chopsticks


	Joe asked for the three-high nails. They always measured things by the height of the centipede since it never altered its length, so Jes knew to give his dad the cup of nails that contained the flat-head nails sticking up over the wooden container's edge. They were building an aesthetically displeasing bird house together, but Joe had failed to remember to drill a hole in it so the birds could come home at night.
	"Hey, lookit that," Joe said and nodded to the backyard's southernmost sand dune. Up on the ridge was walking a young man, a bald easterner. In a flaming red dress, the odd visitor would be there in a moment. Jes was captivated and his arm didn't see the leak-proof bag of glue made from camel intestines. It spilled and Joe threw his glance to the somewhat destroyed workshop. Glue all over the bird house. Jes covered his ears.
	"Jesus Christ! What's the matter with you!" his dad yelled. He tried hitting the kid in the ear, but there were those miraculous hands in the way. "Now what do I do for glue, uh? What do I do for glue, uh?" He kept slapping Jes until he pulled his hand away. Joe got a competent hit to his son's left ear, and it was a pacifier. "Do you know of any rotting camels anywhere around here?"
	"No, sir," Jes answered unto him.
	"Do you?"
	"No, sir."
	"Well, you're going to have to find one anyway or kill one, you realize that, don't you?"
	Jes nodded sullenly. He didn't feel like being repetitious again. Joe gave a light slap to Jes' chin, but the stranger was upon them suddenly, and asked, "I have traveled far?"
	Joe turned. He was cordial where potential business would lie in doubt. "Yes, sir, you sound Jewish."
	"No, no," the stranger admitted, flaking off his soaking red dress. It was tattered and came off in installments. "I have traveled far. You might do me a great service."
	"You think it up, I can build it, what's thy name, stranger?" Joe asked. He signaled for Jes, who was lightly crying, to run on in, into the main house.
	"I am Kane." He sat his bag, made from four squares of bright yellow material, down; it materialized out of nowhere. The bag kept moving. "I would like a pair of chopsticks from your good establishment. I lost mine in a dice game."
	"Did you?" Joe's whole tone was changing, but not necessarily for the worse. "Did you now? Well, see. This is a family business?"	"I. Have no money."
	"Ah," said Joe. "That makes it tough. - Hey, though. Draw water?"
	"I have done my share."
	"Well in the front yard. You draw til they're done. Chopsticks, right? That's far out."
	"Far east, yes," Kane admitted.
	"What I meant, yeah. Okay. You just set yourself out - that's fat at one end, small at the other, right?, how the sticks look?"
	"You  honor me with your perception." And Kane bowed to the master craftsman.
	Joe took him out into the front yard, just behind what Jes loved to call Dune 27, and stuck a bucket in the easterner's hand. Kane tied a rope around the handle of the bucket and labored 4 hours til darkness set in. 
	Jes was silent at dinner and Mary kicked Joe under the table. She could tell something was wrong. Joe for the last couple hours had been feeling the pangs of guilt from his previous parental guidance, and now just felt an aversion to his wife for butting in on his own selfless mood.
	"You smell like shit," he told her, and left the table. But then Joe smelled the same; they'd fixed up their double bed in the stables long ago, since that kind of room held such fond memories for them both of their early years together. Mary didn't even notice him, his smell or his leaving. She used a super sharp knife and carved the dirty layer off the wooden plates they'd just eaten on, as Joe went to his son's room to make good his confession of earlier intolerance. The pine room was locked again. Joe put his shoulder to it, it gave way easily. He hated barriers between his family. It was empty. Joe went to the window; locked from the outside. It was typical. Jes was out talking to the clouds again.
	"Fucking brain dead," and father closed the door. 
	There was no reconciliation on that following day. Kane was still pulling liquid from the ground. Joe had one chopstick under control but the design of the second baffled him, and he knew for a fact that if he wanted this set symmetrically similar, this stick pair was going to cripple this week's work output. 
	The third day Joe finally saw Jes. He was sitting on the sand pile talking with Kane. They seemed content. Joe felt the undefined remorse of jealous affection. Why was this stranger getting it out of him? Jes never talked to his old man with such undramatic happiness. When they'd go fishing, or sandstone whipping, the boy would be laughing and jumping about in his enclosed sandals - but here was this... fucker, stranger fucker, getting the best mental, quiet, content attitudes out of a teen; well, Joe just couldn't stand it.
	He came up to them. "Kane. It's going to be at least another day on those chopsticks," he said stiffly.
	"Another day?" The oriental was surprised. He grabbed for his moving bag.
	"You try getting wood out here in the middle of this shitty desert! - There's hay in the stable if you get hungry. Just during the day!" Joe tried to put his hand on Jes' back, but the lad pretended like he was interested in the well. He look down into its depths.
	"No," Kane explained cordially. "I have been fasting. I will further fast."
	Jes jumped into the well. Joe's eyes went wild with frustration. "Jesus!" He ran to the edge of the well, fearing the worse for his namesake. 
	Joe bowed his head for a moment that seemed like forever. When his head came up, there were trails of tears on his cheeks. He squinted. Joe could just make out the distant image of a man. Almost floating on Dune 3A; Jes' favorite play-park as a child. 
	It was Jes! Coming forward, ever closer. Jes could hear the obscenities spurting from Joe's mouth become an audible music to his ears. Joe kicked sand in the kid's face, warning about heartattacks, etc., and Jes said unto him, "I know you care. I forgive you." Then Jes went in the house, and Joe shrugged his shoulders.
	"What's a parent going to do, uh? I mean, fuck this!!"
	Joe noticed a few scorpions escaping from the easterner's bag. Kane had been surprised by the miracle, but he jumped back quickly and reclaimed his pets. "Food," he said, "to be cooked. Eaten. When my sticks are ready. Peace."
	Joe waved a condescending hand and let the stranger get back to bucket dragging. 
The father went back to the workshop and toiled his feeble brain over the problems of straight stick making, but he couldn't shake the son of God from his mind. It was tough being a second father. There was blood everywhere, and Joe realized his thoughts had made him take his carving knife to his own forearm. How he cursed Jes!, but he was upset that the blade was too far down in his skin and he'd definitely have to buy a new one.
	The next day saw a tiny improvement, and Joe was feeling rather good about how the chunky end of the second stick was coming along when a loud shriek erupted from the backyard and almost instantly Jes came running in, shouting tongues that to his ignorant mind sounded like foul curses directed at Jes' mother's recent husband. He slapped his son for that, but Jes just wanted to be held, and dove deep into his embrace.
	Jes had pointed out to the front yard, so once the boy had calmed sufficiently, Joe went out to see if Kane could undo the mystery. Kane simply shrugged his shoulders when asked. He didn't seem to know. 
	But suddenly, there was Jes. In front of them, and he said unto them, "But, dad, he was trying to touch me. Here," and he illustrated unto them the area just below his waist. Joe felt himself becoming nasty.
	"Get up!" he yelled at the stranger.
	"Oh, that," Kane said, with a shrug and slight laugh. "He had some sand on his pants. I was just trying to -"
	"There's sand all over this fucking place! What?"
	"For a full minute to brush it?" Jes asked unto Kane.
	Kane smiled again, and Joe tried a surprise punch. Kane moved and Joe fell to the ground. "I do not wish to hurt you." But Joe was determined, and began to go for every kick and punch opening he thought was painful. Joe was beaten to a pulp in less than five minutes. The kicks came and went, Kane was barely moving, but it was Joe who was breathing hard for his inactivity; Joe was rolled up in the sand, it was all stuck to him from the blood that was gushing out at various places.
	The sky became dark when Joe had nothing left to give. Kane sat back to finish the dinner the father had interrupted. He put a dead, pleasantly cooked scorpion in his mouth, and delighted in the salty taste as it moved down his throat. Thunder claimed the sky, and Kane used the first chopstick Joe had given him hours ago - broken in two to serve as a set - to pick another meaty brown piece from the scorched bowl that hung above a smoldering set of ashes. Lightning showed a wind-swept desert, and the piece at Kane's mouth suddenly came alive and stung him on the lower lip. Desert gusts blew the storm into another field of existence, while Jes tried to carry the big bleeding man to the half-comfort of the stables. 
	"Water," Joe silently exclaimed, and Jes was quick to comply. Mary was baking biscuits in the kitchen. Jes didn't feel like wounding her with news. Jes passed the water to his dad; the liquid in the cow-gut bowl was turning red, but neither noticed. Jes only thought of comforts and wondered at the stupidity of his parents' weird desires for wanting to make night-slumbers in the donkey building. He didn't know wine, he didn't know strange sexual preferences, he went back to smell the rising aroma of new bread and dog meat. Joe felt woozy. The wine was having its effects, and he climbed out of bed. He stumbled to the workshop, never noticing the sand-covered corpse, he was feeling better. Joe giggled and sputtered saliva dreamily all the time, all the time engrossed in carving rude objects out of his reserve stock of beech planks. 
	He showed them to Mary in the morning. Sober, head in an invisible vice, he thought they were amusing. Jes was still asleep. Mary loved them, she thought they were wonderful. They were the best work Joe had ever done.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::no,Iwon'tletyou::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

                      Supposition!


The staple never holds the top button, and so
I kill a child.
But not one of my own, out rented for 3/2 of a hour
along with his mow-machinery
I am like a fly with a nail up my ass
and Benjy cried, at nothin spoken him
made sens unto dry land does
but don't mind him, jus a slap
she told me twas cold beef soup
like daddy goes away brings back all us
application forms I feel my soul leaf
when I get a credit card for b-day
and it said you be good an I'll kiss yo ass
of course I reminded the reader I's white
like the murderer on that last ripped page
but uncle Sol tol me about wax bees made,
"like this wasn't somebody nasty smell."
And I cried.
Mommy daddy mommy daddy so far it's even
but even they tried, slapped it,
grandma Sally-Dirt wiped her feet and left
and I cried. Tons of  emotional big words
caught in my pants, like this wasn't stopped
but in the days of religion,
sabbath first day on calendar
and then I stopped, then I started
and I cried again til I went dry from Coke
but Spint sister ax me of motives,
she enjoyed the N. Wolfe collection
and I felt carved out inside do you know
what time to set it for it's an Oscar
and I sat and cried holdin my hands
til golden sun spat my face as a dirty cobweb
mommy grandma Spint and I repeated
and I laughed first losing my emotional bookmark.
It was after and before lunch
and the lemon tree smiled at me
til the token be paid, and Jerry
lost that quarter readin' Bill Fucker
and I cried like the lord J. Christ
from new door and when they looked at me
I stopped. Feelin tempted by Satin.
Mommy rubbed her own in las Friday
plucking the feathers, putting sod on 
the pig and picking up the rest of dinner.
Membered lamb as a child, playing
with food. All moved by whims
stillness of air into a leg
of pj's, and they wouldn't 
move for somethin til grass eaten
and I cried thinking how would pastor
like it if I wore same thing all time to dinner.

/////////////////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\/////////////////////////////\/\/\/\/\////\\\\//\


                                                          Baboon Shoes
              by Ben Ohmart


	Gerald  lit a match with his cig and mused from the glareproof windows. The office had no walls, just windows, and the boss loved the way the bubbling images looked. The pregnant women all seemed to huddle in groups, with clear pimple-heads and somehow they all seemed fatter. Except Jeanuh. It was always except Jeanuh with him, but somehow it'd slipped his notice that she was in her 19th month and her breasts were sagging and almost gone. It was the flatness that first infuriated his sex peak. 
	Marrrrrtha entered to be excused for labor pains and she was given notice from a speech that didn't take any thought. He was thinking of hot nights on cool beaches, and being with a woman who perhaps wouldn't need a legal top - the way she was. A shudder passed through Gerald's body and he found the cream for his iced coffee. He was sorry to let Marrrrrtha go, she was a good mother and well.... the business was not chartered to be temp run, he had to refill her huge position, but the fire drowned out all pangs of remorse, echoes of hunted friendship in this machine-run enterprise of baboon shoes. That's what the got, he thought, for running up a Breakout score on his Packard Bell that honestly hadn't been topped before. The hot computer had caught to the curtains and in 20 minutes, there was only a scorch mark on the square footage of real estate. Gerald looked through the milling firemen, looked through the hippos in blankets eating various cups of yogurt or Heath bars and he saw the woman sweating. He saw the woman raising the red cotton thing above her head for extra warmth, but to tease, yes, just to tease.
	Since there was no longer a business, the ex-everything didn't find himself bound. He walked over and asked swiftly for the date he'd longed for. 
	"I can appreciate that," she said.
	He couldn't understand it. "Then I'm going to just have to follow you home."
	She smiled and Gerald thought she'd have to be death not to hear his insides beating like they were. Drowning out the dying winds and sputters of CBs and radio sets.
	He pressed her, so she said, "I'll be looking at other situations," then she went off, wrapping her head tighter, and a pillow with harness came down upon the white sidewalk. He thought she looked thinner.
	The ex-everything went to the zoo. He'd called her. Long ago he memorized the number among numbers. The machine was kind. He stared at the things in cages, and had an idea. But suddenly a child kicked him in the butt crack and was gone screaming before he could knife the creature. Gerald removed his slacks to wash his hands, dried himself, then removed the coat and vest. For three minutes he tried to decide if life was worth living or something else. He'd had the thing insured for thousands, but still the value in human understanding was a little vague on paper. He'd call his friend, a broker, and think what practical could he get for it. Gerald opened the stall's door and there the woman was. The woman his ideals had always been in like to love with; the object of a kind of beauty that had usually thrown his body up against a no dimensional wall. 
	She laughed and said, "Calgon take me away."
	His eyes used to be blue, but then, just then they changed to her face. "What are you doing in here?" It was a difficult thing required to say; it needed words. 
	"I'm trying to dump, do you mind?"
	So he closed the door and waiting outside the men's room until near zoo closing, when she emerged with ten paper bags and a KFC bucket of suppositories. Gerald chewed one on the silent walk to the gate; he tried a kind of friendliness she was obstinate to give. 
	They reached her car, the bus sign, and he said, "Look. Give me a simple reason, and won't have to worry. You won't ever have to worry about me."
	Jeanuh looked shallow into his eyes. He wished she'd look deep. She saw herself, and it gave her the seriousness of attitude that just made the man shrink.
	"Want  to hitch to the islands?" he mumbled. 
	"What?" she asked. It was healthy interest.
	Gerald was cleared, since the first time since the initial rejection. Cleared of a worry, cleared of all self-trauma, open to pleasures he'd wanted as a professional foot man.
	"I want to take you away! Name the chain! Name it!" He was yelling by now, but the woman made it to his neck. The arms were around, and the two spent hours by plane getting to a clearing of palm plants and busy sand, busy with red ants and the pelicans that packed their lunches for just the place. The woman was bundled up on the sand, head to lovely foot, but Gerald was dreaming of a time later, later in the relationship, when he could put a hand to the breast, and everything else could or didn't have to come naturally or at all, he was just pleased with himself. He was freezing, but pleased, and he knew now how to keep a treasure. It was lucky Jeanuh didn't care. She didn't care about where, or other questions, but loved the soaking of the South African sky. Gerald knew what to do. He knew what she wanted, and what she wanted could be him, if his system was compatible to what she'd expect. What rich atmosphere she expected to thrive in. He thought of the woman bogged down by jewels and how that would suit her, and thought of that call he made to his stock broker friend. Of the pitiful price of his life. But the dates - five there were - between that bus line and now. They kept his mind on nightlife pleasures, memories that would hold him back only by the merest whims of later credit card bills.
	He knew she wouldn't miss him. Gerald managed to slip out for a minute. He heard the rustling in the trees. The grunts of the green, and he took the sample case with him. There was something behind a deep rock, cut into a hillside, Gerald saw, and like a fully funded and urgent explorer, the re-everything withdrew a shoesize-measurer with the stealth of lovers. The baboon scratched his huge head while the man sought to fulfill himself.  

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||


IS THAT THE F'IN' ALL???
		yep...
			Stay in touch, FL will..............
    
   and if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauceTIPSTIPSTITSTISPPITSPIS

		     .,.,don't, huh><>

















