Zechariah 2:9
Every wannabe convert should seriously think twice, at the very least—before submitting accordingly, at cubits length, in Court Bizaarro—whether to merit a ceiling fan, spawning throughout A Midsummer Night's Westurn Wet Dream is worth this grief Between The Dire Straits.
Yesterday, I woke up to Ulan, my neutered Maltese barking up a typhoon, as the town fire sirens seduced a Mexican Landscaper in a wife-beater.
Today, while Ima prepares Tanghal'ian further up the stairs, I wake up mouthing Kaddish to myself, after missing my chance at dancing the horah around Jericho, my shorn pillow. (Less Changeling Hands Across America—The House of Shiva—narrated by cheap sweat-shopping mall t-shirts. More side-by-side rectangular mantles the size of Giant Tortillas via flotillas, unfurled upon Masada, shattering Guinness Galus Vinyl and Erevtov Cocktails with a slight subversion of the Viper's tong, at each of the four corners, counter-clockwise: firstly, toward The Rising of The Tsunami, then poised to harass, exponentially.)
I gather, a devastating imagination is a Lot, rarer than a tight bod. And Begin to wonder-weather the former manifests Menachem, the ladder flash mob. Either we're Sleepless in Shtetl, contemplating entropy in gasps or comfortably numb in the arms of a Golem. I can't tell. Karma Chamelion will.
