Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof

The Twittering Machine

In Bob Folder, Uncategorized on August 22, 2008 at 6:06 am

I. Lobster ad lobster

Aqua Thinktank and I are repurposing delphinium in a stranger’s bed.
Taking my lobster, O. Ron Dismount, for a walk in the Palais Royal. Then, grabbing one with cheese. *wink*
Bats are like mice that freak out over mounds. This according to a study published today in Nature by my associate, Ergo Pippette.
Attempting to hire a chauffeur with at least basic familiarity with Baluchistani car rental agencies. Impossible!
Aqua Thinktank just told me technology has boners for eyes. He showed me a high-impact plastic case which containing two regular human eyes.
Containers contain contents. Incontinence tints pants. Flippancy flips pantsuits into soups of various sorts.
Developing a newspaper one-half of one inch wide and 32 feet long.
My blanket is seven feet wide and eight inches long.
My bicycle has one giant wheel and one tiny wheel.
My mammoth car has a tiny chain-link steering wheel.
My mortadella spoke. Comforting gibberish.
Lobster fighting with NFL players. Cruel? Not if you win all the time like O. Ron Dismount.
Do my fingers smell weird?

II. Only with strangers

At the Flore with Ergo Pipette and Aqua Thinktank. O. Ron Dismount curled up like a bloodless scream on the foot of Catherine Deneuve.
I’m hosting a social media conference. In my pants.
Watching the clown car races at Clermont-Ferrand with the very sensual Italian cinema star Flambango Miglioreamico. Émile Levassor wins!

If you go to Retardvark City, remember to wear aardvarks in your hair.
Take me down to Retardvark City, where the armadillos are green and the ardvarks are pretty!
Shotguns for the homeless.

Repainting the sidewalls with Catherine Deneuve. *wink*
I’m a “thought leader” in the area of My Pants.
Having preconceptions challenged by rock band eating Spaghetti-Os out of dolls’ heads. Outre!
Helping O. Ron Dismount try on tiny suede pants, designed by Charles Frederick Worth.
Doing beer bongs with Root Loobers and Ergo Pipette at the Wendy’s on Boulevard St. Germain.
Going to smoke junk with Irish and Senegalese illegals behind Helene Darroze on rue d’Assas later. Anyone want to come with?
Stopping to email spaghetti to starving loggers in Chilliwack from the Le Petit Saint-Benoît’s office.
Having lunch at PuPu in Riga w/ Aqua Thinktank, Ergo, Root Loobers & Flan Iliescu from Thingfish International. Talking about numerals!

I am contacting you believing you are a lightly sautéed and leathery bottle of extra virgin olive oil. I believe you will not betray the . . .
If the butter is not clammed and Krogaarrr the Destroyer discovers this lapse, the ass butler would be forced.
I prefer to talk on the toilet. But only with strangers.

With Ethel Fugard, co-authoring monograph on how to mentholate your own cigarettes, called “Home Mentholating in the Age of Enlightenment.”
Stuffing finches with smaller finches.
Nothing is worse than being honest in public.

III. Competing in the highest-rated dance competition on radio

Competing in the highest-rated dance competition on radio.
I’m exploding.
Ariba Q. McHate cake is hashing my mellow.
My web blog is totally cool and is great.
I’ll be at Lenny’s Nosh Bar at 2 am eating a pastrami and cream cheese omlette in 1987. Stop by!
Packin’ genitals.
IM-ing Aqua Thinktank, who is sitting across the bed from me. Think she’ll figure out it’s me? *wink*
Staging a debate between a thimble and a pencil.

Unpacking a white language from a box under the coffee table packed inside wheeled luggage.
Unpacking the wrapping I packed around silverware from around silverware: unpacking a white woolen language from the box.
A white wooden language, a white linen language.
I unpacked from the white wheeled leather luggage in the closet . . .
A flat wooden box wrapped in a white sweater . . .
And unpacked from the box the white woolen language I had wrapped up the silverware in . . .
Shaking the silverware loose, unwrapping the white language, a white wooden language, a white linen language, a white woolen language . . .
And shook it out and fastened the clasp of the box and wrapped it in the white sweater again . . .
And secured it in the white wheeled leather luggage again and wheeled the luggage into the closet and slid the box under the coffee table . . .
And unpacked a white woolen language from it that came apart like cotton candy again.

Johnny Cash, my pants hit the ground with a clang, and angels sang out.

Giving a lecture on “The Comical Hilarity of Humor” to a hatful of teeth.

IV. X=I

Every seat in the auditorium was occupied by a small tooth. The teeth listened intently to the silence. At one point, they all laughed.
Lobster whores keep hitting on O. Ron Dismount.
Made my pants out of planks I sawed out of the bottom of cast iron skillets. They clank. I carved my cowboy hat out of wood.
Too many people talk about squeaking bags when they could be talking about snow monsters. No wires! No spongecake! Only foam & landscapes.
Still not hard enough?
Aqua Thinktank says I’m decanting. In my pants.
I wish I weren’t so fucking awesome.

Flan Iliescu left his soiled jeans on the loading dock and walked home through the snowy blue woods. The wallet he carried was made of cake.
Daydreaming about Laotians.
“Ergo Pipette, Author of the Quixote.” Wound up rewriting the 9th and 27th poems from “Listen to the Warm” instead. I said he should  be elated!

Daydreaming about lotions.
Don’t be part of the lotion.
Long talk this morning with Mr. Microphone about tube food, pirate bumps and albino cakes. éclairage!
Munching a diaper full of curly fries by the canal.
Helping Catherine Deneuve market her new fragrance, After Body Splash, aimed at the lucrative medical examiner market.

Do children read these? Or is it just me?
Pozzalanic ash. Symptomatic nerve gas. Only meemees have legs.
Latin Conditional Woodchuck Chant: “How much wood would a woodchuck have had, had a woodchuck wood?”
This sentence no verb.
Hey look I’m in this thing. Let I stand for thing, where thing is greater than or equal to X. Solve for X. (Hint: X = I.) I’m in this thing.

V. Fuzzy beverage puppets

To clarify: “This is the Ulysses whose marble am.” (This according to Root Loobers.) Please clarify (show your work.)
I can’t think of anything truly crazy to say.
I’m blogging. In my pants.
This sentence contains exactly one hundred and forty characters
This sentence, however, while remaining identical to the one that preceded it, contains one hundred and forty one characters.
The latest Fugard/Folder monograph (Numbers: Do They Exist You Asshole?) will be published in Nov. in a series of possible pants.
Your outrage bores me.

Do my fingers smell weird?
Adding scare-quotes to words like “air conditioner” and “fudge.”
Building a house out of morning wood.

At the Flore w/Aqua Thinktank, Ergo Pipette, Ethel Fugard, Flan Iliescu, Root Loobers & Catherine Deneuve. Making spectacles of ourselves.
O. Ron Dismount is asleep in the ashtray. We are howling in derision at Ariba Q. McHatecake & Krogaarrr the Destroyer. Pedestrian boobs.
McHatecake and the Destroyer are doing a two-person one-woman play about Iraq. Vulgar, laughable political chest-pounding.
We’re planning to disrupt the opening by slingshotting diapers full of chili at the stage.
Fuzzy beverage puppets pop my dinky eyes and momma, see you in the wiggle-wiggle heaven soon.

April 15th is my hamster’s birthday. He’ll be three years old. He’s a Canadian hamster. He’s very protective of me.
He won’t let anyone near me. He’ll bite them, he’ll bite the person right between the legs if he has to. I took a picture of us together.
He won’t let anyone near me. He’ll bite them, he’ll bite the person right between the legs if he has to.
I took a picture of us together. His name is Thornton. It stands for Zeus. I have three hamsters; Thornton, Poseidon and Aries.

Working on a “microbungling app” called “Rong.” In Ergo Pipette’s laboratory in the 10ème.

VI. Paris is where I became impossible

Just discovered my pants are racists.
Producing musical based on the life of Sherman Helmsley to open at the Palais de Congrès in January.
Poem of the week. “Overheard in Steve’s Broiler”:
Poem of the week, “Ode to Seattle”:
I think my own eyes are eyeballing me. Well, we’ll see about that.
I am blind. I blame my fingers. And spoons. And melons, for implying the possibility of melon ballers.
Will replace missing eyes w/ cyborg melon balls. Fragrant and acute. Sniff the eagle! cried Ergo Pipette. In this too he was right.

I have a MySpace website that armors me against the attacks of plague children:

Deep-fried pants are spying on me. I see them with a contrived nonchalance on street corners reading l’Equipe.
They’re all like “I’m a de Chirico painting! I’m a de Chirico painting!” and I’m all like – BULLSHIT.
By judging people based on the color of their skin, their membership in a cultural group and so on. In other words, by bulk

This morning I recited Song of Myself to hidden amphibians, compressed greasy ashes into a 3-ft tall cone, and made love to Tilda Swinton
So many squares in the world. If I did not exist, you would be forced to invent me. *wink*
Develop. video game: former PLO terrorist Walid Shoebat vs. Lebanese politician Walid Jumblatt, “The Shoebat-Jumblatt Knock-Down Drag-Out.”
This kind of effusive behavior is embarrassing. For all three of us.
On the Barbes, in the XVIIIe with Poopsie Tancredo, teaching orphans how to smoke.

Paris is where I became impossible

VII. Your outrage bores me

I have published the first section of an epic new poem. Tremble before its thing with the stuff on it over there.
Having a kafija ar pienu at the Melnais kakis.
Do you know how to turn off bacon?

Ergo Pipette bought me downers for my birthday! The gesture of a true gentleman.
Spent all afternoon on the banks of the Seine watching Sleestaks garrote prawns.
I’ve been nominated for an MTV musical video tape award!
Dutch makes me FURIOUS.
Watching ‘Santa Claus vs. Hitler’ with Aqua Thinktank.
“Why are poor people always hanging around in parks eating shrimp out of leather buckets?” C. Deneuve just asked. “I find it so tacky!”
He’s a bad man so I put him in the cornfield.
I bought a key-cutting machine so I can duplicate keys with “do not duplicate” on them.

At Rungis market with Ethel Fugard, Root and Aqua Thinktank to register O. Ron Dismount in the Mayor of America contest.
Ergo Pipette & Floppy Sprinkles working on what they’re calling a Peace Corps for hookers.
Fibonacci asks Root Loobers: Why are all Asians called “Dada”? That’s a good question.
Root Loobers and I stole all the toilet paper in the Louvre and replaced it with identical toilet paper. Take that, suckers!
Root Loobers, Aqua Thinktank and I creating startup: Used Celebrity Underwear sales and social networking site for aficionados.
I’m exploding.
Poopsie Tancredo is accusing Ariba Q. McHatecake & Krogaarrr the Destroyer of adultery in public. Quel humeureuse!

Aqua Thinktank and I siccing Barbary apes on Italian tourists on Place de la Bastille. Oh, how we laugh.
Ethel Fugard & I shoving drunks into cars at knife-point, O. Ron Dismount snapping at their heels. We laugh as they weave into traffic.

About to start “ass-casting.” It’s the latest thing.
Preparing an asscast on crotch goblins with Flan Iliescu & Catherine Deneuve.
I’m holding a seminar on Bongo Profligacy for a hotdog nailed to a block of wood and a pair of discarded gym shorts I found in the ditch.
Technology’s nothing but a dirty whore for pleasure of me.
Be on the lookout for Ozark Jimmy’s new toilet-generated content app, built on the networking-spool technology Bacon on Rails.
My avatar done blowed off his haid!

Using “astronaut logic” on Canadians.
Are you my mommy?
Batting at largely-fictional creatures.

Paul Newman just died.
Helen Mirren has died.
Talking for a 2nd time about employment with a firm that produces electronic pig helmets in the woods.
Also contacted by Giant News Factory for Hoodwinker-in-Chief position. It’s all about Bob today!

Holiday wish list. #8. An all-terrapin vehicle for tearing through the Tuileries with Catherine Deneuve.
Holiday wish list. #9. A lambent canon in the land of Canaan.
Holiday wish list. #10. A Hebrew midwife in the land of Bethlehem.

Your outrage bores me.

VIII. Who’s your pants?

Baby got a new pair of legs She got ’em at the leg store baby Yaugh-haugh!
This is a good recipe for food.
Have you punched a hippy in the neck today?
Sir Reginald Bonefolder has traveled down from London on the Eurostar to play tag with Mr. Meetfingers on the tracks around the Gare du Nord
Did anyone see my keys?

Who’s your pants
Aqua Thinktank laid one of these across Mad Dorcas’s lips. Dummy.
My pants are whispering again. I can’t make out the words. I hate that.
“do yourself have 2 pay a good amount of dollars look at on page find service picture” Thank you. I find your coherent sexiness in there.
Bradley Whitford has died.

BobFolder MSS shows Lovecraft rewrite. Story was originally “I Was a Teenage Actuary.”
Discovered mss of unpublished H.P. Lovecraft story, “I Was a Teenage Sumptuary Law.” Horrifying.
Identified several invasive non-native species. In my pants!
I got a gun. And I’m crazy. And I vote.
“Snugglor the Unholy comes! He is pure fire.” Happy Easter, from your friends at the Young Men’s Chthonian Bunny Demon Association.
Deer went crazy and attacked us in the bois de Vincennes. Had to stab it with a potato peeler.
Mad Dorcas forced my man-cruller into a pasta machine in the back of a dusty shop in La Villette. I splashed her w/2 cups plum sauce
Ergo Pipette effected my escape. Aqua Thinktank hid me under a pine cone in the Bois de Boulogne. There, I lick my wounds in darkness

Got 20 invitations to the Flazmorp beta to hand out. Flazmorp blingles your shrude to your nazil without torkblorging. A world beater
Enjoyed SXSF (South by South of France): interactive Brie apps, social baguette systems, distributed wine network paradigms. A new world!

Just published a piece on mannequin porno in Le Monde Diplomatique.
Aqua Thinktank and I siccing Barbary apes on Italian tourists on Place de la Bastille. Oh, how we laugh.
Batting at largely-fictional creatures.
I’m exploding.
Helen Mirren has died.
Ergo Pipette & Floppy Sprinkles working on what they’re calling a Peace Corps for hookers.
Poopsie Tancredo is accusing Ariba Q. McHatecake & Krogaarrr the Destroyer of adultery in public. Quel humeureuse!
At Rungis market with Ethel Fugard, Root and Aqua Thinktank to register O. Ron Dismount in the Mayor of America contest
Paul Newman just died
Fibonacci asks Root Loobers: Why are all Asians called “Dada”? That’s a good question.
Preparing an asscast on crotch goblins with Flan Iliescu & Catherine Deneuve.
Are you my mommy?
I’m holding a seminar on Bongo Profligacy for a hotdog nailed to a block of wood and a pair of discarded gym shorts I found in the ditch.

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