lampcake

By in large, karma worked phonetically. It'd slurp a few easy vowels, coming off with a bit of an Anglo-lisp, but nothing that'd upset the inlaws. Worked down with some gin, the effeminately curved typefaces formed O's, dripping with flourishes of spunk or possibly lactate.

Our favorite fascist resembled a cow. You'd send them a dossier about rinsing after sullying their mitts -- a thing cows would love to sully, mitts no less, cloven or with digits -- and all they'd do is moo and add some cum or milk to homogenize the hole, or the world, or the entire stinking joke. Many O's later, it would take someone like a politician, a democrat maybe, you know, some sort of land speed apologist, to update his caps and pack in a few extra nooses, just in case it was black tie. Then, head over heals, clasping his new-found helvetica maybe, or cuneiform (either worked), he'd stammer, erect but with slightly sloped shoulders, shaking his podium with the slightest tremor of a future relapse, and mutter on about something kind of dingy, kind of pale, a story that belied the truisms, a tale (or perhaps just a crapshoot take on life) that not many had uses for jays or the end (you know the type), and, no matter what bookshelves would go up, they'd really just lie there, pregnant with unread dears, distraught by the incessant lashings of cows and karma lettrism, a world made for funny and excessively large pants, won over by elastic waistbands and orange juice stains (so-called). Not withstanding, and despite the now-quaking podium, all the crowd ooo'ed and wow'd, made ridiculous roaring for encores, and, following the ballyhoo, tired but grinning with having witnessed such prose, such a statement, such charisma, they, the beholden of newly-formed-mouths, made for the dump. And registered to vote once more.