Love aways yieLLdeth

So anyway, I don’t go into the kitchen anymore because the wife just stands there and beats more and more eggs all day, just stares off into oblivion– though she’s still very beautiful especially when the sunlight peers through the window in heavy sheets. Then Gary inevitably comes by with a head of lettuce and a bucket of fish guts that he always get angry about and dumps all over my carpet even though the house is on fire and smurfs keep sneaking in with the cutest little fire hoses to try to put it out– those smurfs that my son likes to stomp and collect up into a blender to make ungodly beverages to impress his bohemian friends by.
So anyway, the wife’s lost it and the other girls don’t talk to me even when I strategically place my bulbous and delicious cock in plain view and tell them truthfully about my past homosexual relations and the best way to avoid the spread of disease such as the Tango Lessons, the Moppy Hair Virus, and especially the Spontaneous Suspender Regrowth. For the most part they just avoid me even though I’m a genius who howls poetry at the moon from the top of the highest ant hill in my backyard while regurgitating fragments of fish that I’ve carefully slurped off the floor. Spongey Walters always tells me it’s not much of a courting gesture, but what does he know with his moustache, his mullet and that ugly fucking mint green flannel that he wears over his head half the goddam time.
So anyway, as you may have inferred the wife and I don’t have sex anymore and she’s been in that kitchen going on five years now. It has been expressly stated in very long paragraphs in very small print on single sheet documents that if she dies by fire, by smurf infestation or meteorite collision that the full possession of her eggs shall be passed to me. So I just bide my time under remote bridges, below the surface of lakes (where I can’t breathe), somewhere in a large pool of beads and, when I’m incredibly lucky, in Keith Moon’s bass drum...