WRITER OF BOOK: RICHARD THRIPP — no military experience, no college education, night high school graduate 1979.
Richd. Thripp doesn’t use coupons, separate trash, read newspapers, marry within race, eat meat, care about trees & manatees, believe in imminent climatic catastrophe, love Hitler, kill many snakes, follow sports, attend church, worship Prince Jesus, dye hair, limp, shack up, believe in registering nurses, submit to surgery, discourage children from smoking cigarets.
The Man with Two Eyes: A free e-book by Richard Thripp. 6*9, 96 pages. Download the PDF version (~500KB), or read on…
Not since somebody else somewhere wrote a book has one squat brought such relief, joy — a Scripture unscripted, a play-bill, menu — the just & the scattered particles of eyes formed in orbits,
The Man with Two Eyes.
2 elephants having a good time…
PASSING GAS STATIONS
{Like a fat man struggling to breathe.}
That night, after hurting her eyes watching elephants, Karen completely forgot how to love a man, but had an itch to make it with the next elephant. “Oh Kevin, why can’t people be more like large animals?” And, under and elephantine moon, she & Kev explored the mysteries of jungle passion plus English-language studies: why anger & danger don’t rhyme & other such suchness.
“Knife has a k in it,” Kevin observed, “yet homosexualism amongst men precludes women.”
”I know,” Karen talked like a Norfolkian, “take Nor-Fuck,
it’s a glorious place because everybody wants to say it
instead of the pronoun.”
“You are exciting like a skinny woman in undies.”
“Yes,” agreed Karen, “as when General Sadam Hussein al Takriti replaced President Bakr in 1979.” — She awoke from her longish nap only to be punched in the head by her brother’s uncle. He had huge, heavy fingers from several years of hammer-juicing. His toes were fleshy & stained from tobacco use. Kevin sought the comfort of a short, fattened woman whilst Karen preferred the stillness of a tall, gainly man. Together they’d have trouble adjusting to the new sizes adopted by belt manufacturers. Karen enjoyed nightly loving whereas Kevin was more prone to drinking & driving. Children would be a part of their futures as impregnations. One can sit for hours on ass without regard to compounds, explosions, fish strips or shaven women. Kevin knew his lungs’ capacity & couldn’t enjoy cancer fearlessly. Karen ate from a bowl provided by the u.n. as her country was bombed to smithereens.
Next: King of the underwearers! Proctitis: inflammation of the anus & rectum… author’s notation: thank God I ain’t got that.
Karen knew that with the price of ground chuck it would be impossible to serve meat to Kevin every day. Perhaps a substitute would hood-wink him after a few beers? Luridly she plied him with liquor till his tongue was good for nothing. “Care for a burger, Honey?”
“Sure, I’d like a honey burger!” Said he half-looped.
Karen prepared the fakest one every & presented it to
Kevin with a plate of potato chips.
Kevin, who was barely able to chew, gnawed the imposter
meat like a dog would a tree trunk. “Sheeze,” he said, half
soused, “this ‘meat’ is something.”
”Something?” Karen thought. “Does he suspect? And I don’t like the way he framed meat in single quotes.”
“Got any more honey? Burger?” Kevin slurped half-assed.
“Sure,” Karen said with a smile that was winsome yet heartless.
Later when nobody was looking she vowed to never mock Kev with trick meat again. She prayed no damage was done to their abiding love. {After scratching like a monkey for so long she decided to wash her hands & resume scracthing.}
I felt the terror in her Peruvian hands as she forced upon me erotic message techniques imported from Mexico. “Roll over,” she said in Spanish. “¿Donde esta mi padre?” She asked in English.
”Listen to me thoroughly,” I warned, “Peru’s stable junta is about to be over-thrown by operatives of America’s secret police.”
“Oh Jesus! But what can I do to thwart them?”
”Thwart them? La-dee-da thwart them!” It was then as I made fun of her usuage of thwart that events took a sudden verge towards the violent and Peru fell into the Peruvian hands of aroma therapists. {”Oh God: aroma therapists!”}
“From now on it’s only pants for me!” —
Katharine Hepburn at Dyke Palace, 1963.
Stephanie had known Charles, or Chuck, since the olympic gender verifiers plumbed her tubals. He’d known nothing more gratifying than prostatic hyperplasia so it seemed reasonable to test the water before doing anything further “olympic.”
As a cosmetics’ chief’s responsibility starts with a cream base Chuck was aware of layering & cystic action {neither compliments the other}. He loved Stephanie from nodule to papilla, ink to wax, from hanging baskets to mossy crevasse. Nobody knew, or cared to, the lovely parting gifts olympickly-minded. It’s of geographic certitude as all suspect… all the holes in all the heads, the darkness, O the organized effort!
HER ENORMOUS INCOME … CONTINUE READING