Late night ramblings 2.0 (Forgive the dyslexia)

     I'm eyeing that pitcher of tea werryly.  I can not sucumb to it's caffeen drenched power.  Be gone fowl beast!  Dragon, deep within my cave, I vanquish you!

     Everything is dark and vuegly blue as the monitor constently seeps the pulp from thousends of blueberrys across my world, dieing things a dusky blue.  That loan porch light shoots apricot beems through the back door window.  The orange is threatening next to the blue, that mellow, passive friend; it is stark and evil.  I wounder if it is in some kind of cuhoots with the tea.

     Suddenly, blatent-white shouts (yes, that is the intended word, shouts) out in flashing staccato sheets from the cracks in the seal of the refridgerator door.  The refridgerator shakes at me threateningly, and the freezer door claps in anger.  The machienery within makes a din I've never heard from my 'fridge before, nor from any other 'fridge for that matter; cogs and wheels and geers gnashing and grinding, all creeking and making a huge affaire.

     Then, as like the quiet before a storm, it jerks to a calm hush.  I wait.  Leaning forwerd in my office chair, the bolts whining in the strain of the constent increasing pressure of my boddy exhurted through my posteriour, which is neerly about to fall off the edge.  I wait some more, though I know the time elapsed to be far less then I measure, for I know the intensity has set heavily upon my judgment.

     In quick succesion, the 'fridgerator door flys open, and out jumps a figure tall and looming.  It dwarfs the refridgerator in it's imposing size.  The room has been augmented; stretched in some way, like silly putty of the gods; to fit the new aberitional apperation.

     Were one to be in a more rational state, more prone to thought through conclusions; one might have described the figure as being a pitcher of tea with tooth pick legs, a noodle tail, two lettuce wings, and two (green) olive eyes on either side of a spout serving as a beek.  Not as grandiose as the chinese dragon; spliced together from the head of a cammel, the body of a serpent, the wings of a bat, and the tallons of an eagle; but do not let that have you think this was at alll less then horifying in my sight.

     It sat there, scrapeing the ground in earspliting torcher with it's legs, steem spouting out it's beek and pervading the room with muggy heat.  I took my trusty bass from the wall were it lay, grasping low on the neck with my left hand, and with my wright swiped up my didgeridoo.  We stared at each other there for what seemed like ages.  He knew it, I knew it; only one of us was making it out alive.

     Finnaly, he hunched over in a stance of agretion and poured out a splash of steeming rasberry tea.  The dark purple liquid frothed past my legs, the largest swell coming up to my hips and throwing me off my footing.  I braced myself with the didgeridoo, and quickly rallyed to attack.

     Charging at the beast, I swung the didgeridoo over my head, creating a low whiffeling that rumbled through the air.  As I shouted a streem of curses, the instrument flew from my hand and whistled low, stricking an olive cleer off the poor dragon's head.  He realed in pain, shimying from side to side, tea spouting out on all sides of his lid.  I could see it splashing back and forth in that monstrous gullet, bubbling into puple froth, and I knew I couldn't end up in there.

     The beast bouldered towords me, his legs churning and wings flaping histericly.  Haf running, half falling, he closed the distance between us and gushed out foaming spurts that struck me like the worst kind of alergies.  Compleetly disoriented from the onslaught, I am slamed heavely by the lid of the pitcher as it rams me off into the air.

     Clinging with one hand to the flat surface of the monster's lid, my lower left arm and torso dangle before his mighty beek as I am caried higher and higher.  Letting the neck of my guitar slide through my fingers untell my palm reaches the crown, I read a might blow, swinging the extended ependige back behind myself.  It come forward strong and strikes the curved side of the beast, glancing off uneffective.  Again I strike, and again, and again; 'tell my left arm is sore with swinging and my wright is sore with clutching.

     For minutes I hang there, woundering if this could be it.  Could the tragon have defeated me?  Have all my efforts come to no evale?  Oh, please, I begged the lord and life and all that is me, and all that I am out of; please do not let this be my end.

     As I tossed and turned in the anguish of this thought, the lip of the beek which dug so teribly into my ribs, and the air that encompased my legs, and the cold plastec that my cheek rested upon, they were all gone; and silken sheets and down pillows incircled me; and I was calmed and comferted by the gentle swaying back and forth of my cats tail acros my chest, nad the poking kneeding of her claws upon my collar and neck; and now there was a greater task before me, the task of falling back to sleep.

. . . . . . -When I first inspected this peice of writing, I was not all that enamoured with it, but now looking back it is damn good. I think it is my favorite peice to date. E.L.F. October, 11, 2005 . . . . . . -Fuck that shit, The writing is psudo classical and compleet and tottal tripe. E.L.F. October, 11, 2005