‘Pick the bones out of that!’ I exclaimed to the defeated palaeontologist.
‘You can’t cut Dinos with a dinosaur.’ He feebly replied.
‘I surmise that you’ll fossilise with fossil eyes.’
This, one of my replies, was met with no surprise.
‘Extinct, your ex-stink, of something old and obsolete, leaves you incomplete—like ankles without feet. You might be neat, but you can’t stand up…’
‘I’ll not stand for this,’ he indignantly sounded.
His mouth agape, his eyes rounded.
‘In your field of expertise you’re sufficiently grounded.’
I decided to concede.
‘I must push on, I’ve mouths to feed.’
Interjected the bankrupt restaurateur who’d retired in Nuneaton, masturbating repeatedly over images of Michelle Heaton.
Free association styled prose from Julian Cloran, visual artist, writer, poet and agent provocateur. Random musings, which are sometimes cynical, but always intended for amusement, stimulation and entertainment. Comments are welcomed so don't be shy. Simply click on 'comments' to post yours.
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