Friday, May 28, 2004
(Not that I was, but) THINGS YOU'D FIND RUMMAGING THROUGH THE RUBBER BOMB DUMPSTER:
- 5 slightly molding bear claws from that crappy place up the street
- after-market bicycle chain (Schwinn)
- 9 remote controllers all marked "Downstairs Bathroom"
- a photo of Fergie Jenkins signed by Dikembe Motumbo
- copy of Cat Fancy dated March 1993 (selected personal ads carefully clipped out)
- empty jar of Goober Grape with air holes punched in the lid
- sealed jar of gefilte fish
- 14 unused passes to "Nutty Dames Exotic Cabaret and Coin Laundry"
- 5 sticks of "I Can't Believe It's Not Gum"
- 1 gentleman's hairpiece from the "Charlie Rose" celebrity collection
- paperback copy of "Raising Muskrats For Profit (Believe, There's Nothing Fun About It)
- same publication written in Gummy Bears melted to the quarter panel of an '84 Buick Skylark
- lithograph of a bumblebee throwing a javelin
- Prestone antifreeze bottle stuffed with Brazilian coins
- promotional Barbara Boxer "Got Boxer?" boxer shorts circa 1998
- last will and testament of-- That's it! I'm outta here...
Thursday, May 27, 2004
As the Hamms sign flickered inches from his face, Geraldine (all his friends called him Marsha Mason, no relation to the bowler) couldn't help but wonder if the municipal swimming pool was zoned for neon in the deep end. He'd attributed that tingling feeling to ticks, notoriously agile and reckless swimmers in their own right. Geraldine dried himself briskly, bypassing the standard cotton towel for a sculpture of Forest Whitaker (no relation to the escaped economist) that stood --legs akimbo-- in the adjoining playground. The sky had grown overcast and packets of relish began splashing on the (legitimate... and if you don't believe me check with the commissioner, you rotten [patent pending] Shriner!) Jai-Alai court. The indentured servants fleetly snatched them up as they fell so as to avoid a general spiritual and psychological panic. Once the downpour ceased and the condiment collectors rolled away in their motorized Pearl S. Bucks (no relation to the pocket square turned groundskeeper), Geraldine took a casual 12 mile dig and disabled septic service to the greater Muncie area.
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Fish! Fresh fish... OH, you're awake. Let me just turn the siren down a moment. And these heat lamps have certainly gotten a touch warm.
Greetings from the latter half of the first half of the first decade of 2000s. If you've stumbled upon this blog, clearly, you're a fool or the person who sent you here was a fool AND is no friend of yours. There is but one purpose to this electronic notepaper, magnet and fridge set... and that is to wring all manner of meaning from these helpless letters that we've assembled into "words" and "phrases" (rest his soul).
Oh, this is indeed but a smattering of the vocabularic carnage to come. A rude and randy shadow of the true sham to roll out. For the most part, The Rubber Bomb takes pride in selectively, surgically and slowly (oh, my stars S-L-O-W-L-Y) handcrafting it's melange of blathering into a nearly impenetrable wall of words. Not so this outing. Perhaps the more horrific realization, is that this offensive offering is off-the-cuff.
If you cannot understand, consider it an affirmation of your solid mental fortitude. If you cannot abide, take it as a vote of confidence on your good taste. If you cannot care less, consider yourself among the higher percentile of humans who choose (and wisely so) to turn away from what they consider to be worthless wordsmithing. Without worth and with words, we are. Join us again, will you not?
Grazing towards greatness,
Werner von Bounce