Quote:
Originally Posted by montsnmags
Yes, but the grass is generally a little bit more turquoise.
Have you been drinking? 
I woke up on the eleventy-fiftieth of the month of Jarch to a beautiful, clear zorange sky. The thick turquoise grass cushioned the seventh-to-twelfth of my eighteen buttocks like a row of botanical egg-cups. To my left, pshrynk snored Tchai-tea-v-sky's 3141 Overture loudly, lavender bubbles shaped into llamas bursting lightly from his nostrils and drifting into my left ear to burst like canonfire at appropriate moments. He was still cuddled up against that feminine-shaped piece of driftwood we found up in the dunes, cooing lovesongs to it in his sleep (Got wood? He sure did). To my right was Adrian, investigating to depths of one of his ears with a painted nail and looking intently down at me. "OO!", he said, in a manner that seemed to suggest "I am not going to wait around here all afterbrunch when there are perfectly good windows rollicking in the waves that I can interfenestrate" and it seemed like a perfectly reasonable comment so I sat up and realised my view hadn't changed so I reattached my head with the staple gun Adrian was holding out for me. "OO-OOOO!" he said, pointing to the strawberry waves running up the sugar-beach. He was right - those windows playing in the surf weren't going to be so open to interfenestration for long. I stood up, and seven squirrels fell from my sequinned kilt, looked up at me, said, "Giggle", and ran for the waves.
Who was I to argue? My buttocks detached from the grass with popping sounds like Popcorn (the musical number, not the food), and I followed, gallampering calluminatively towards the shore break, googlies teased by the kumquat zest on the sea breeze like an ice wind across a plate of meat-and-potatoes.
'Twas going to be a fine day. I'd wake pshrynk up in a few minutes, and we'd try figure out when we were and how many drinks we'd need to consume to pass through the other side of the hungunder into last week so we could catch up with yesterday and find out which gutter to pour ourselves into in front of a streetsweeper that could re-outside-in our cerebellums with its whirling dervish brushes (that reminds me, I must call that whirling dervish back - I think I wrote his number down on buttock number thrwo).
In the meantime, some windows needed some lovin'. Adrian, me and the squirrels dived into the waves...
Cheers,
The Barman |
When this is being written I'm on a plane going to the Caribbean, so I'll have to catch up with you next yesterday and we can make the calculations on the dosage. I think I've got the new quantum calculus just about perfected, so there should be minimal error. Of course, by minimal, I actually mean "Within a century or two."