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The rim of the Arch around the bell of the spoon did contain the bubbling solution well. But when the hell was St. Louis?

No, it wasn't.

It was Budweiser, not St. Louis.

The long-neck bottle. Oliver Jr. was the kid at the picnic asking his dad to please drink responsibly. Not asking exactly. It was the fourth of July, shot in May. He was just carrying, being a kid at a picnic so we knew -- the dad -- so the dad, dads, knew to drink responsibly and not die. Drink long necks on holidays.

Oliver Sr. tied off, spiked the well and depressed.

He hit it. Hit the plunger.

Forget Spielberg and that bitch. Never Oliver Jr., not yet. His voice said he would stumble across two nineteen-year-old boys doing something weird with a car seat in the woods before the credits. Said LAX. LAX.

My favorite part of being alive is being asleep

The needle slid out like the prick of the troll on the scrambled porn channel: limp and winking.

What the?

No, that was Budweiser. This is now.

Comforting, ordinary, common, familiar: in so many words early reports told that Oliver Jr. had 'one of those' faces. The audience relates -- even as a baby. And still the list grows, the shrew gets thinner and the boy hears this and that and they fly and audition but really she's just waiting for him to die in a small room like this one so the boy never has to confront his past.

One with a TV with a man with a bird of prey on his shoulder.

Time to take my bird for a walk, yes?

By the time he is eighteen there will be two thousand images of the kid beaming through the universe. Alien life will study his DNA. He will emerge from a spaceship for a press conference in the Rose Garden and know instinctively how to hit his mark and when to bow his head for optimum sympathy.

Then he will eat them alive.

What was in that Styrofoam box? Is this room paid for?

A mirror must not be smashed.

I have never been able to stand the sight of myself smoking.

Always that fear of what might appear on the next channel. A room is a room with an unexpected face spotted against glass on the closet door.

Yes, Mr. Spielberg and all you Neverland monkeys.

The auteur of this sequel wants him dead because he is an X-rated long neck.

A spike that overwhelms.

But why on earth the Dale Earnhardt lighter?

Ah yes, because the others were all sold out. <>/P>




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