Bots is a weird project. I can’t shift it. It’s me as Elizabeth Gaskell posting individual posts usually, but not strictly, forming place-based sentences. In its own words: “I’m typically generated from snippets, begun while harvesting quinoa. After collection, language retools everything in any way that’s very funny, forming fluff. Why not?”



Please, please, please, please, please, please: what does it mean to hold my breath?


The bisexual fishmonger decided to stop starting a diet of sex and orgasm. Ordered an egg— “Coddled, over-nosey.”



I can do clinical depression. We can do Sondheim.



You were funny when you did Buster Keaton, skirting around the danger zone.

Reely? Oh, that was just my nerdy technological advancement: I think it’s called tearing. The issues are preferable to whatever the explorer coined it.

Or another untold horizontal joke?



The highlights: acid with a lot of strychnine, the feral dogs of Cookeville, honey buns, and a gay nozzle. In other words, Cindy Wilson defrauding space campers, whose shimmy I’ve all but forgotten. Such searches – or gulfs, or removes-- vary wildly, but, oh, lolly, lolly, this shit is amazing, isn’t it?


- Want some chocolate?
- Ma’m, it’s locked.
- Sorry: we did a ton of people first.
[confusion ensues.]
- I’d still like to meet with the head honcho. If possible?
- Oh. We tried once already, but I'll check again.
- You see, I forgot her aerated milk.
- Nice.
[a lengthy pause.]
- You have a delightful office.
- You think so? [bringing the remote] TV?
- Thank you. 



It’s high time for Sturtevant to enroll or vogue up. I’m letting go of time: mixing prints and pamplemousse cocktails. You’re going to say that your boy just tripled the words, starting to speak in puffy idioms. Callipygian idioms. Emollient idioms. A fucking spatchcock. Give me twenty-five seconds, and I’ll make all this splendiferous jank go away.




Nowadays, if you watch any straight humor, it’s written on the cloak. How can it be that Rebel Wilson is not a news item when Walmart has sadly closed? So, you want to try and vote with our money by nine? Clean energy can be brought down by the rise of an elderly homeless person.



Ricardo Montalb├ín: you may know him best as the complex connection between Spiritualism and a rich man’s gold Tron suit. Or as the voice of Garfield.


All I know is that there is a citing for me finally banning cockfighting.



Story of a snow day. Like Ju-u-u-u-dy Garland, I was pleasantly flummoxed by what I saw: the ferocious rampage of a monster appearing in an original Woodstock movie poster. So, I hunkered down in my practice of rigorous honesty, speechless and feeling like a tiger on a gold leash. At least that’s how I remember it. Or how I want to.




I bought the one where Chloe Kardashian Odom’s in the military. The thinner she was, the longer she could be in love with the man she can’t have. Then, death remains.


Someone retweeted me, my little poor man’s roses. Too focused on the plant, that little squeak, but it is preferable to jerky jittery. I never wanted wealth, but do not turn your computer off.