AVOID INFLUENZA LIKE THE PLAGUE "Only one person impersonates Elvis and Elvis ain't fuckin' her--why ya think you should?"--Jerry Lee Lewis ... 'like the last cocaine party I didn't enjoy: 100 assholes can't shut up when I finally have tons of cool shit to say'--mrjyn ... AVOID INFLUENZA LIKE THE PLAGUE

"Only one person impersonates Elvis and Elvis ain't fuckin' her--why ya think you should?"--Jerry Lee Lewis  

... 'like the last cocaine party I didn't enjoy: 100 assholes can't shut up when I finally have tons of cool shit to say'--mrjyn ... 

AVOID INFLUENZA LIKE THE PLAGUE

 

Othello Act 3, scene 3, 155–161

Who steals my purse steals trash

'Influencers avoid influenza like the plague, snorting meth through designer masks, cutting their side-eyes to throw shade at Cleopatra, for which Cleopatra would smirk, and check herself'

-- mrjyn

Byhalia pronounced (bye-HAY-yah), but commonly referred to as "bye-HAIL-yah" by some residents, is a town in Marshall County, Mississippi. Byhalia is named for the Chickasaw word meaning “Great White Oaks.” U.S. Highways 78 and 309, along with I-69, all intersect to make this a true crossroad. Antebellum homes and churches are part of the legacy of Byhalia and Marshall County. The population was 1,302 as of the 2010 census. According to the United States Census Bureau, the town has a total area of 2.9 square miles (7.5 km), all land. The town is served by the Marshall County School District, one of several districts being supported by the Mississippi Teacher Corps.

blah miss her blah BYHALIA PLEASANT HILL GAS ICE PROPANE FUEL MALONE 199 South Malone Hernando. Miss. 38632 Open 7 Days 6:30-9:00 

Beneath the stick in Barbados was rarer than hens teeth or Carter's pills for his liver, because there was no table too tall to fall from the highs that the lowest of lows still hadn't popped in the chute when you hit bottom, comin' up, one onerous one at a time, having nothing but fun--his brain to assume his feet try to run, as that chute shreds up and out the second he realized a top-off, when Caesar forged past him with a smile he was smirkin', and in his dram of color wan, Depp had to drag back the brakes on the landing gear upon which he lit like a golf ball, but stopped like a whore he once knew, whose passion for him was solely as pricey as his cards would extend,  Louis's, Chanel's, Saint Laurent's, he'd buckle and do only bite the foot of the one he procured, muted in hues more Azerbijani than Israelite, one tone too few, so beige their impression, meeting them out--if not for the blackness, the sunshine squealed concerning some thigh-high, fuck-me boots--he smiled and marveled why a guy ought to feel alright or that  he need to support it--one spit, one swallowed, and one would just curse ... as she swilled it (Wiley Coyote was a genius who dropped ACME anvils on the Roadrunner, incomprehensible by design -- he whorled it).

 

like the last cocaine party I did not enjoy: '100 assholes can't shut up while I finally have tons of cool shit to say ...'.

• We should not think this dear, two unbroken but by the lies formed, their lot, to be Pinchonesque, was 'crying' out while its madness is records it-- 'occurring' too passive, 'duplicity', too dramatic, 'complicity' back to square one -- we are all now, either ignorant, resigned, or disabused,, as to these times, as the eddying in dormant black pools; of ours now overdue and unbidden; an arrival hardly in need of preparation, or paint, or red and white bunting; not poetically reaching to make a point, its coming is now--no calls, nor forewarning the punch it is bringing--the party won't fall in, but hangovers missing a light and peace and calm from day reverberates deep in explicit performance, the author intends  his prose as invention, inspired--its careering, chaos, and moil for diamonds--cut diamonds to lessen, we learn, hardness indefatigable, heeding aeons, compounding resplendent whitecaps per le force majeur, cutting an inch deepens its track--its event will be clocked in sandstone pristine, if next it be checked, it was here on this date on its way, its final step, not far--detritus--boulders its riders, and theirs is natural ending in plain sight too obvious, too garishly lit.

 

• The brakeman in yard, no switch to prevent it, he calls it instead, just in his head: Track 29 ... was that what he said?
  

  weren't simmerin' there on a gas pit just makin 'him festerin' those shit tubes weren't deliverin 'feces, they was cookin' rubber out, the taste and shit in it--and I don't know what the fuck they'd et, some people make noises, some halfway float up from their seat, they suck oleaginous sewerage, edible, and  actually joke as foul as they do, saying, it aminds them of the movie Alive, where Argentin footballers crash on a mountain--Donner Party, Pt. II (let the ass eatin' cannibals survive in a jet nose and dine out like Lector, our doctor--medical or fake?

 

• I went to a dinner all formal and shining, silver choppers shown masticate reflections, where quick did I catch ol' Hannibal watching them, and more as they ate it, he caught an erection.

to be seen buying offal, innards, small gut intestines, ovaries, all manner of tubing, sexual plumbing, caul fat for wrapping, stomachs inside of stomachs, next to spleens with bile, kidney's with livery sheen, opalescent in the butcher's light, and embryonic sacs, and vesicle ropes with oversized beans, nerves, and jellied lubricious integuementary semi-solid--semi-viscous oleaginous fat both yellow and white, both thick, wet and flat, and those found inside of its equine hooves under its protected folicular equivalent nails also formed and slowly growing and sloghing over and off, further protected and augmented by even more occasional strapping bridle and metal embedded through smithy in great bursts of fiery explosion when banged red hot and glowing out of the bellows hot fire repeatedly platting its size into thinner but stronger and unnoticeable shoes whose traction and metal took a while to work out, but then became like his reigns, saddle, blinders, and bits:  just one more bling thing that boss horses and studs liked to wear, not to impress, or because a full Johnny Dang Blue Diamond Grill Upper and Lower helped him chew the oats, barley and clover, carrots that much faster, but because, a mare looked at two things every time he trotted by, whether pulling a wagon, or up to its ears at the bottom of a burlap sack of Winter Hay--and one of those things was the lowest thing on her up-down check-out:  kicks, brogues, spats, snow boots, funereal black patent uppers, uh ... the original inspiration for Gucci's "Horsebit" exclusive branded buckle replacement / status / luxury bespoke Company icons.

 

udders, nipples and the inbetween connectors fitted out around all manner of anatomical linkups made of hide, sinew, fat, nerve, bone, or muscle: hitches and connective tissue--offal is as offal does--and what it doesn't--one day, walk away at a vulturine guineafowl (Acryllium vulturinum) buffet, inventory beastie birds, all prehistoric holdouts, winged morticians, school cafeteria chefs, homeless shelter managers, sanitation engineers, highway engineers, and emergency first responder teams.

 

after having circled overhead for the better part of a day, marking and observing dinner--waiting for the telltale sign of first vibrating massing movement, whose maggoty roil of sub-epidermal entry points, through orifices, testes, fistulas, eyes--a vulture can see with his huge eyes, even from atop his drift on warm summer jets.

 

His eagle majesty, and birder representative, most esteemed, Vulture gladly relinquish for more practical feathered--lack--the universal hobo, flying carrion, signifies adroitly, taboo association of primary function and distinguishment separating him from those other long-distance glider / breeders, empty-Nester, monogs, opportunists, with the work ethic of a Millennial bass-player: 

 

wait until you get your feathers good and ruffled-up in a hypoglycemic nadir, blood sugar event, exacerbated by environmental and situational inability through social phobia from before you had even lost your brown baby feathers, and which among other eccentricities, or intrusive thoughts, repetitive, self-soothing, physical behaviors you more frequently exhibit, benign--through learned coping skills, or more severe shutting down from others, including when this behavior has been triggered, not by the task at hand, or through the pressure which your  accountability and responsibility to follow through, volunteer, or make yourself available for every manner of spontaneous and unplanned family request,

 

Regalia which with us he shares--whose grapes weren't fat, nor juicy, nor ripe, for the picking, or eating, but for the smashin' hoppers whose shakers and strainers would separate everything from itself in brain-rattling din, as the juice ran out red from the side of the bin, and it bubbled, and took on its new incarnation as the liquefied product's whose slow maturation was only as necessitous as maceration, fermentation, non-oxidation, incorporation with this grape and that wood from an old cooper's barrel whose bunghole was tight and its stopper as good as the day the cooper whose first time to make it, stood around and wondered how he'd hammer and join and burn and attach all cutout pieces of requisite size, pieces of oak, chenne bois from forest whose final importation would give the magical formula with terroir, rain, sun, even pumice, and ash--all kissed and kissing back--from guides, fences and stumps to logical place whose sunshine it craved but not on its face, it was a woman in Cannes whose regimen is an inborn, through ineffable knowledge it applies creams, powders, and masks, to preserve and hydrate her most precious gift which she's taught to care for, from her mother, whose mother, it was told in a car, was the beauty of the South of natural luster--her skin like a shimmy whose perfect pH was such that if the sun was making it bake, it would regulate itself, as if by remote, to through chemistry, biology, DNA, genes, revive and renew through regeneration its very essence and layers whose embryonic powers were both as soft and alive, its corpus's largest organ, the entirety of it if removed and spread out or stretched by a tanner would surely provide comfort, protection, and warmth, and, but, most of all, when stretched, and scraped of its sub-dermal padding, would only provide like that of a horse or a cow or other beast of burden, whose burden it was when not being ridden, milked, butchered, whipped, or bridled, was herded through spontaneously erected fence-posts and gates, all together commotion, and into steel slots and chutes and all kinds of restraints, for shots, brands, feed, or studding out--they knew everyone they had done, and just one that they didn't--the one that was today, and which they only did once--the once where they sauntered in single-file line behind others, ever dutiful, calm, at this point in their life--a full blown domestication--but for the one last bit of business they never expected, at the end of the line behind all the horses, their ceased to be others milling about as one crosses over, or waiting and snorting, or whinnying or braying, in fact, it seemed like there just much that any horse was saying, and as he marched further and the tunnel got thinner, he started to spook of a sudden from some horseflesh gutcheck, something was definitely amiss--and just then his long and regal horseface and long chestnut mane were stuck through a hole at the height that he was, and he heard something loud start to whir and to buzz, and it wasn't a bee or a wasp or a snake, although it hissed like a snake, and if it were it would have bit him and then all the lights went out on that 6-year-old stud, and his horselife flashed before his large soulful eyes all the adventure and wind on his coat and fillies and clover he'd had his fill of, and it wasn't so bad, because he didn't know it ever came to an end, except just before that bolt flew into his brain, and the heat and the pressure it blew back his mane, and the rest of the story, he cannot recount, because his legs buckled under, and he dropped like a sac, but of beautiful mottled Milanese leather, or one of those one's whose Birkin's or Louis's were both luxury, status, and Haute Couture art, where he still rides a wild herd of his others on the Champs des Lycees, or on a Red Carpet, held by a rich, leggy lady, whose pride and self-satisfying sense of possession it is which his freedom still gallops in front and into the wind, still on a runway or  at the end of a strap, his beast of burden, le sac, purse, LV, Gucci, Hermes, or Fendi swag.

 

-And the best part of it is, his hooves match his coat, his shoes, and  his bag!

WOODYWOODARD Owner 368-9755

 

*I got me one a JERRYLEELEWIS Polish Rabbit fur coat and a picture for provenance from the nicest fellow in Nesbit, or at least KaddyKorner--one more 'k' that don't stand for killer and nothing'd matter it'd be gone like the wind.

but if god made any better to ko konvenience store in the middle of the nowhere at the end of the road on Malone where there's been Kay Kays and Shawn's and plenty of dippers and Tarps and Lash bandits,  biphetamine bozos and eskatrol newbies fell  their face, their other was just barely winning over one trying hardest to beat barbituate  bringin' shit show from airport to HH former, not  latter, where no hipsters dared to death they'd get  and never find what was the matter.

Killer then, and that guy who lit rum right next to your ear, laughing like shit-- it blew the fuck up--151 rum, and that stuff is supposed to.

But really everyone knows who's running the show, not Kenny, or  strippers who liked frozen pizzas, nor setup fuck-ups whose meth was like Cheers with a habit, only Memphis could fill it, Dr. Nic Nichopoulos regularly, on Brooks Rd., where you'd find me with black glasses, and Linda Gail Lewis and her horse's ass of a husband who impersonated Elvis--you never seen Killer look so fierce.

 

Took his nose inbetween pointer and thumb, two digits, each hand clears $5,000 a night,  in Myra's book--take a look.

 

He grabbed, and he pinched, and he shook, and he looked, and he said,

 

"Son, only one person can impersonate Elvis and Elvis ain't fuckin' her--why the fuck ya think you should?"

 

somethin' insane, to which Bobby Memphis, that New Jersey rube, with tears from his eyes squirted Bob Gruen Bobby Saucier nope #Stefanow but , nope #kittycorner but it's kickin' me off. i guess i said what i had ta, but forgot to a-mention the heart of the club's name, Mr. Shit, Robert Tinsley, he sang on my record I cut for the sister, and hates that name but he'll live and don't forget to catch the video he made of us all bein' high one Mother's day night real late Sunday I'll post a link later. Kelly Hali Chelette Graham Knight Ross Johnson Lenny Smith to myra. sorry i cursed but i liked it but i'm sorry. and to the ever never forgot whole gumbo in this pot stirrer Frankie Jean Lewis rip you were too smart to go much...but ya know, she was there ...