How to Meet Women and Make Them Salivate on Your Nipples
The national rope unwinding championship
has been postponed due to a factually-documented need
to build a rope-bridge to the moon.
Muppets are dying and we have to fax them supplies,
barrels of papier-mch stockings filled with grain
and fuzzy pig-flavored condoms to cut down on the noise pollution
of a hundred screaming lint balls passed through Miss Piggy's kidneys.
Earth's cannons are too busy quoting Shakespeare
to shoot life into their aching velveteen veins,
so NASA needs Mexicans-like you to wrap twine baskets
around their feet and fly in fake plastic spaceships
to pop and pamper each an every Muppet-filled crater
with Oxy-clean flavored Listerine dreams.
So buck up, son, and join the Marines.
Fire your model rockets into the bursting red glare
of a million red-eyed Communists
standing on the front-lines of your Faustian morality plays,
waiting to replace the Devil with a pipe organ
and Godot with a non-stop Jamaican dance-hall discothque.
They want to place vibrators in every hotel room,
and only you can prevent forests of lesbians
from owning a majority share at the Holiday Inn
and stuffing Smokey the Bear's mouth with
the tattered remains of the American flag.
Yes, there's a new war in town,
and it's not about your Ford-Nissan dealership's penis envy anymore.
We've got bi-polar polar bears to cage and bury.
We've got beers to bury in the stomach of foreign soil.
We've got brilliant authors to dig up and staple to the necks
of TV Anchormen in prime-time while they read stories
about how razor blades are packed into your children's textbooks
by the evils of premarital gum-chewing and low-fat yogurt.
Load your ketchup bottles. Lock your noses.
Trust no one, unless they know the secret pathological handshake
taught only by Dali Kermit the Handshake's twitching fins.
And for god's sake...
Whatever you do...
Please... don't tell the audience about the bomb's strapped to their children's livers!
Because we've only got so many back-up plans left.
The national rope unwinding championship
has been postponed due to a factually-documented need
to build a rope-bridge to the moon.
Muppets are dying and we have to fax them supplies,
barrels of papier-mch stockings filled with grain
and fuzzy pig-flavored condoms to cut down on the noise pollution
of a hundred screaming lint balls passed through Miss Piggy's kidneys.
Earth's cannons are too busy quoting Shakespeare
to shoot life into their aching velveteen veins,
so NASA needs Mexicans-like you to wrap twine baskets
around their feet and fly in fake plastic spaceships
to pop and pamper each an every Muppet-filled crater
with Oxy-clean flavored Listerine dreams.
So buck up, son, and join the Marines.
Fire your model rockets into the bursting red glare
of a million red-eyed Communists
standing on the front-lines of your Faustian morality plays,
waiting to replace the Devil with a pipe organ
and Godot with a non-stop Jamaican dance-hall discothque.
They want to place vibrators in every hotel room,
and only you can prevent forests of lesbians
from owning a majority share at the Holiday Inn
and stuffing Smokey the Bear's mouth with
the tattered remains of the American flag.
Yes, there's a new war in town,
and it's not about your Ford-Nissan dealership's penis envy anymore.
We've got bi-polar polar bears to cage and bury.
We've got beers to bury in the stomach of foreign soil.
We've got brilliant authors to dig up and staple to the necks
of TV Anchormen in prime-time while they read stories
about how razor blades are packed into your children's textbooks
by the evils of premarital gum-chewing and low-fat yogurt.
Load your ketchup bottles. Lock your noses.
Trust no one, unless they know the secret pathological handshake
taught only by Dali Kermit the Handshake's twitching fins.
And for god's sake...
Whatever you do...
Please... don't tell the audience about the bomb's strapped to their children's livers!
Because we've only got so many back-up plans left.
phoolsfire:
woah! 
youv'e created some super hybred of crazyness
youv'e created some super hybred of crazyness