_ _ _ _ -_ _ _
_ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ __ _ __ _ _Conversations with Dewd

Re: Fred Meyer Rt. 7


This is a letter to the editor. When is the next issue of OtherSpokane coming? It's been a while since I wiped my ass with a computer screen. But, I've been thinking again and that's always difficult.

It occurred to me that your "Read Up and Wake It" slogan makes more sense than slot machine nudity. I miss the crosswords. Bomb grease. Let's soon talk knitting. Is this train going to Fred Meyer? I half to laff. An electronic rag? Take a dump in someone's yard. Scream obsenities. A can of peaches. Ed Sederah. Trees. I've adapted a sequel for the big screen.

Did you hear about the big contest to find a new slogan for Spokane? Is jackknife misspelled -- likewise, if Pete is a fat man who eats too much pizza, then Pizza Hut. You know, my Dixie wrecked. Funny how that Darwin symbol evolved to show faith in God. Worries me. Let's play the statement game. The point is moot. It's that time again. Seriously.

Phyllis Diller,

Re: The Doors of Perspiration


Are you slippery? Has Spam gel obscured your pre-processed meatlight? How rape you dare the lingering writestuff in suck away. You, my friend, are dangling from an old Dean Martin precipice, giggling like Oprah if Oprah had to shave and started speaking in a language only spoken by festering, sleep-deprived midgets. But, can that girl dance!

I'm sorry, but you risk the danger of out insider demigod-like Barbie with a lesbian haircut, including metaphorically "smooshing up" into what in stinker whooshes you that inner-thumps like the hair shirt of a living creature, but is actually just a big slippery, foul-smelling pillow whose nose job was bribed with the fingernails of primates and cedar shavings.

But, sadly, the ticking clock was nothing more than a Letter to the Editor. Remember? Snow? Winter drank a bucketful of Lysol and kicked the shit out of everyone named Margaret. Then the pig left hair in the sink.

Please don't roughhouse me this cattle barge tenderloin into thinking them that swimming the lenghtwise theme of Dualism you peeping Tom Starbuck hunters trodding woods presumed all men sunk good and lip-drunk proper. As it should be. For instance, cheesecake. Or dust, in parts of Brazil, where it is considered holy.

And all you have to say in response is, "A can of peaches. Ed Sederah. Trees." Any left-handed, chalkboard buttwipe knows the correct answer is "Mike Wallace." (Though I later learned that they would have also accepted, "Criminal Trespassing," or, "The 'Bewitched' episodes with the original Darrin.)

An ad word of vice: hex on you and your girlie blouses, your pancreas of beer smoke, your Buddah urine and your Mary Poppins dishwater. I nose hair the salad bar of your stinking-of-fish, Canadian love fest. I slaughter a vague vegetable in your corny cigar-is-just-a-cigar cowboy sweat. May lice spell out the name of your dentist in an inappropriate location.

Talk knitting, indeed.

Stik Mann

Re: Again, Pizza Hut


Again: I have to wonder about the general usage of colons. I'm a trebucher speaking of lofty lusciousness which apparently fell from the sky in a different form. I would have sent a search party, but instead, the officials decided they could sell it, and actually call it "bullshit." Go figure.

However, I found myself a bit taken aback by your last endeavor -- apparently my Challenger exploded. You wrote, "I'm sorry. " Well, I apologize, too, big buddy. I was certain, and Slurpee wasn't amongst them. All but lonely, in warm sewerpipes of the world, forgotten, but content -- lasting as long as wax. Remembering you in that past life -- mold in the same Big Gulp. I believe you said, " ," and I replied, " ."

You used to really piss me off. Never the tallywager of the '72 Sport . The Klingon Manifesto from the rings of Uranus. It shouldn't need to be said again but you knew the risks of reply. Pizza Hut. Told ya. And there are several other instances.

Early blankets like dark forces in the sky will be pulled, and all will cry for lightning. The seven Jesuses. Many beers. A burp. A good dump in the forest. A crawl into space whilst flying.

Lucille Ball, Phyllis Diller,

Re: Hobophobic Cattle Rustlers


You persist in defending this "Green Vegetable Manifesto" of yours with your continuous abuse of a one-time, well-mannered -- and often fever-inspiring --corndog poetry.

Not that there isn't a place for setting aflame the growling handiworks of Dutch weather watchers, or a sympathetic ear on a piece of cotton in a tiny box for frightening children, without which there would be no breakfast cereal, no Jenny Craig keggers, no Upton Sinclair wiener roasts.

But a life of masterbatory Gerry-rigging of the conventional Shankshaw-like expectations of middle-class mobility would "Big Gulp" the fiberous sit-in-sackcloth-and-ashes aspect of your treacherous gleamings of an oops-a-pig-just-flew-out-of-my-butt plank in the platform of your personal philosopy.

Spend one day blindfolded, with live dung beetles taped to your fingertips, before you doom all of Creation to a morning without Lucky Charms.

Peanuts, my friend, are for sissys.

Stik Mann

Re: The Consistancy of Lard


Your "I-sat-on-the-plug" agape confirms indignity exposed, and to your apparent surprise, it's your "limpy-bean short story" that again almost arose. While your itemized deductions compare to boudoir seductions, your sweaty-knitted underware has unraveled, and indeed your butt smells like cattle.

In the wake of your painless corndog laughing can of flying Dutchman butter, there obviously is no shame and no booger. The etherial umbilical cord leads to a proposed vacant lot. Realize that no mountian awaits your pugnosed Bolivian, as the famous Pizza Hut.

I beg you, please reconsider oncology. European. I'm afraid it's the only way.


Re: The Cult of the Purse of Natalies


Lip up to Fate's Final Putting Green and wipe your ear with this:

Presently, long before tomorrow's futuristic look back ahead to today's rememberances of things yet to be, ahead-looking predictors of past future potentialities discovered lost findings of long-forgotten gleamings into the future of Time that never was or will be.

Had you considered these infallible findings, you would have found that flipant Philistines like University of Phily's Farnsworth and fellow philosophical fornicator Felding's influence on your far-fetched feelings about, say, "Male Penis Envy," or "Rope Burns as Prophetic Symbolism," or, even worse, your comparison of the boy that was raised by emus with fanciful accusations of a Britney Spears' third nipple, makes them all as inconsequential as a fart in the second seat of a cropduster.

I tell you this because I'm your friend, and I'd hate to see you get hurt.


Other mighty tasty, Dewd-related receipes:
Judy Roger's Sarcastic Pantyraid 2000
The Corp of Engineers, man

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worms are stupid