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Robert Alan Wendeborn

Eating Is, And Should Be, A Joyous Occasion

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I am eating this bowl of cereal as if each flake is a chicken in the yard and you are inside of one of the chickens in the yard and I am trying to get you out of the chicken in the yard. I chase them around with my spoon. I sneak up softly. I catch my breath along the edge of the yard, I mean bowl. I set my spoon down. I look around the yard, I mean kitchen. I am so confused about where I am, and also where you are. At this rate, I will never find you.

30,000,000 Miles From Anywhere

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We are waiting for the Jeep to pick us up. I hope that they didn't pack paper plates and you hope that they packed the baby pigeons and banana sling speedos. It's so cold I can't feel my penis and I'm thinking of peeing in my pants just to warm up. We listen to music from a travel promotion. The music is made of accordions. It floats around us in waves. We have sex, because that's what people do when they're bored. But we're not bored, just cold and lonely.


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Like some disco ball from designer hell, I descend into the pig's knuckles. I blow long, not hard, into the designer stem of the designer glassware at the designer bar. This designer bar was a mere three designer islands away from my designer hotel. I past fifty other designer bars on the way. You ride up to this designer bar on a reindeer. Your steed is glimmering in the pink light of Abba as it orders you a beer. The reindeer's name is Sven, and like most alcoholics, he speaks only in vowels.

Someone To Stand In The Background

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I think you need a sidekick. Your sidekick should probably be a puppet or something. Or a child actor who has dropped out of showbiz because showbiz was ultimately hampering their creativity. Maybe your sidekick would be a very kinky animal spirit. Later, when your sidekick moves on to better things, you turn to me for support. I'm here, I say. Good, you say. Now put on this pig costume and masturbate in public while we take the bus across town.

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