so i was debating whether i should post this or not. i wrote this dialogue under the influence of a, uh, let's say "energizing" substance. this is COMPLETELY fictitious and for the purpose of humor; any comments attempting to relate me or my family with the subject matter herein will be ignored or reported, if applicable... if you've seen my work in the poetry forum, i have to warn you that the following is in no way reminiscent of any previous work of mine. it is incoherent, vulgar, in bad taste, and imo very funny. im sorry if i make some typos, Hex is working on no sleep at the moment... some mispellings are meant to show some verbal shortcuts use in everyday vernacular, but lemme know if they get confusing. teehee, here it comes!

YOU...ksh...R...kshkrsh...BRAY...K...ksht...NG....ksht...P...kshtkrshtkshkt...

So there i go left, right?

You're right.

Oh! My right! You left that "right part" out, right?

(frustrated) No! Jus... di...the...ugh!

What?
Jus!
Huh?
Tur...nthen...
Hey!
Hey!!
hey.
Hey!
haaay...
hey.

You chill now?

Yeah dude, jus, jus listen: didja turn out right or not?

Huh? Kristen? Yeah, we'll be alright... i mean, there was just that one time where

(increasingly hornery)No! Fu! Jus! Listen, why in Jesus' name would i care about that right now!

Uh, I don't remember Kristin saying anything about Jesus naming wooden chairs. I mean, he was a carpenter, right? So, like, shouldn'dat be...er... made part of, likes, um, his duties or something or other? But yeah, you're right. We should totally write down what you said she said about the whole "Jesus shit" or whatever, cause dat be priceless... definately Kristen.

Um...oh?...for real?...So eeeyyeah... yo, man, I didn' quite catch all dat, but...but...uh, yes, you "should like stay there." However, the disturbing act of you "pumping my brother's butt," and whether "beer made the farts of spikes, from hiz doody-hole" has no bearing on your dilemma! YOU! ARE! Llllost! er. jus' don' move. Ya know I'm ditching a party for this attempt at locating Mr. No-sense-of-direction.

(confused and defensive)What!? Your phone mus'be about dead. I could barely hear you offer me free yayo, and bring up my catsup induced butt-butta, which you admittedly didn' remain quiet about; all in the same breath as such slanderous remarks reguarding my mother that i dare not repeat them! And then, you compliment the nobility and honor of my diploma, just before calling me a "loser!?" And so what if Justin can move!? He's Justin effin Timberlake! Of course he can!...ugh, justa hear your dirty mouth convey the abomination I'm sure you meant by "first pitching a tent, then loquating with Mayor Nose-in-pants abouda re-election." How dare you be so vulgar!? Answer me! Explain thy lude behavior!

Uh... weren't you the one with the idea of having scripted phone sex? Didn't you come up with most of the dialogue?

Yeah, dude, i was improvising-- just go with it.

(decisive)Oh, aight, um... Don't call me Sugar! I'll x-ray my own quelude, beaver.

Okay, yeah theres not going to be anymore lines like that... Just stick to the script from now on, Dad.

Sure thing, son... you're the boss.

Damn right, I am! Put down the phone-- it's that time.

'Kay, i already grabbed the same mustard as before

Excellent, then the safety word is "dijon vu." Now, hand me that pair of cleats

These, master?

No, you dolt. The GOLF cleats. You know! The ones with the lights in the heel that flash when they come into contact with solutions at least seventy percent human blood, by volume!?

Oh! Heavens, yes! I just didn't realize this was such a formal affair! I'll remove them from my rectum immediately...

Yes, please, by all means. However, you may wanna replace it with something of equal or greater value, or Dr. Jones might lose his hat in all the chaos of falling debris and hat-hungry boulders shadowing his every move.

You are right to remind me of this... What'd we use last time? I can just use that.

Think again... that particular species of lemur is long extinct. And furthermore, as i recall, it was that "last time" in which we discovered your anal intolerance concerning a certain combination of bovine and equine feed, medication, and insemination materials...eh? remember the rash? and the hives, and the warts, and the inflammation...

Yeah, I get it!

And the jaundice, and the bloating, and the scabies...

Yo! I remember! cool it!

and the shingles, and the

I'm serious! Thats enough!

Not to mention the internal hair-loss and those little pustules up and down your crack, that would alternate through every possible shade of yellow and white each week...

I aint jokin'! You need to quit.

Your ass was a pungent kaleidescope of festering, fungal, fecal flakes and secret systems of cysts, setting themselves apart simply by their uncanny ability to cascade their secretions, forming a stop-motion paced waterfall which combined all the glorious elements of the previously depicted diseased posterior into one marvelous chowder, kept snug as it pooled between the crotch lining of your adult diapers and the questionable damming ability of a mouse-sized scrotum, partnered with that tic-tac you refer to as "cock." ...Uh oh... got a little carried away.

Mmmmrrrgrrahg! Dad mad! You no like Dad when Dad mad! Grrragh! Rage... taking... over! Raah! Hormones... destablizing... Nrrah!

Dad!? Daddy!?

Daddy no here no more! Raar! Me am more better! Me am more everything! more annoying, more stubborn, more moody! Me also twice dad-size! But me no work. Work baaad! Me sleep, eat, and have tea with Jesus... Rahaha!ahahahaha!grrah!

Oh, hey Mom, what's up?

__________________

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