FALSE STARTS/BULWER-LYTTON ENTRIES
Everyone used to laugh at Jesse for his foolish worship of Pippi
Longstocking; today that laughter stops.

"Drop and give me a googolplex," shouted the nerdy drill sergeant
as he eased himself into a lawn chair, settling in for the long
haul.


"C'mon seven, c'mon seven," said Lotus-Blossom, whose delicate
Oriental features seemed as out of place on the Mississippi
riverboat as the prodigious lump in her trousers.


The children hooted and hollered and they gathered around cousin
Cleetus; and we all secretly envied him his dangerously high blood
pressure as we watched yet another mosquito fill up and explode on
his arm.


The walls were wet with envy, and they mocked me.

"No, no, no, Jockamo.  You kinna staple your ear to soil!"

"She had features which could only be described as optional."

"There was no doubt in anyone's mind that the butler had, in fact,
done it;  the only question was:  To whom!!!???"


"Hey you, you, yeah you, in the green plaid pants and
technicolor bowtie, you, that's right, you," said Veronica, to no
one in particular.

I hated him the way most people hate Ghenghis Khan...
historically!!


"There are eight million stories in the naked city,"
said the beleagured "New Yorker" fiction editor, throwing
yet another tale of Yuppie love from the slush pile into
the circular one(trash can), "And they all suck."

"Drop and give me a googolplex," shouted the nerdy drill sergeant
to his men as he eased himself into a lawn chair, settling in for
the long haul.

"Sarah," said Noodle, "mop!"

One potato, two potato, all my own.

"It's a squish," Paula belfed as her woman's size twelve foot
prevented so many tadpoles from becoming frogs.

"Can't," said Glenda, and didn't.

If you ever see a man selling cigarettes from the back of his
trousers, do not, I repeat, under any circumstances, even if he's
really really cute, buy Menthol.

Castanets, carbuncles, corral, bridge tokens, none of these rhyme
with "purple" and I'm shit out of luck again.

     Fabula, beautiful countess from the tiny country of Exotica,
languished sighingly by her bedroom window, the regular breeze
cooling her slightly parted thighs--thighs that men had wept over,
fought wars over, been spanked over(for our Fabula can be a randy
lass oh yes she can)--and, with one leg tucked magically under her,
rocked ever so to and fro, thinking all the while of the one man
she could never keep, could never tame, until tiny little tremors
of pleasure began to radiate outward from her undulating center and
caromed palpatatingly off all the corners of her body, especially,
she noted, her elbows and knees, as well as her most secret, folded
places, and then they flew home faster, faster, ever faster until
she could take it no longer and, screaming "Oh, I die," fainted
dead away, and the effect was not altogether unpleasant.