Sargasso Sea, a place for me, a place where the eels bee. A place to let my protoplasmic eruptions of joy and sadness flow. Diluted by the endless salty brine. Maybe you've released your inner demons for the Neptunian tides and eddies to blow and suck them, whistle them, pound into so much mutton chop fibrous sea foam and venous outpourings of virulence and myopic menstruations. Oh sea gods be kind on a cold, windswept Shakespearean night of Lear-like flatulence and turbulence, necropolitan buzz clangering of fear and mythopoeic meanderings of verisimilitude.
The buzzspeak of the electronic smattering machines have lent massive mutterings to the heaving sigh of an antique gramophone. Thomas Edison you fott... Your friends Firestone and Ford, the f-boys and Florida was the place to meet and greet and speak your shared secrets. You unlocked the universe, took Promethean fire and made lemonade, yes for the masses, we love the 'lectricity and the rolling thunder of automobile tires.
Tureens of goose liver pate dot the landscape and pocket watches made by Dali go click, click, click to eternity.
Questor-- What does all this mean?
Anselmo-- Don't ask, unless you really, really, really want to know...
Questor-- That's too many reallys... really
Anselmo-- So you don't really, really want to know, you drunken sot, you're a bacchanalian balustrade of barterdom means nothing beyond boredom and you ain't no friend of mine. Passive aggressive and parsimonious. You make me sick.
Questor-- Okay so you know me too well. I like bourbon better than bombast from a pulsating prestidigitator like yourself.
Anselmo-- You find me manipulative?
Questor-- Massively. So much so that I find your octamerous offerings an intrusion, an innocuous recitation on resuscitation for those not yet put unconscious by your drivels, scriveling, scribbles and plenary plenitude of moral morass.
Anselmo-- Now that hurts!
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