Literal Translations of Tomorrow Nimcompoop Derived of Today Nimcomfreebirds (or Fake it ‘Til you Take it)
Where did you go?
We swept the streets a Nickleberg, spottin’ dimes, rubbin elbows and misconductin’ the pantomimes.
What did you do?
Somethin’. And sometime we did to ain’t. Paradox reslumber. Something inherent in nothing. Something like dust.
For when did you what for?
Three dollars. It didn’t really matter whose hand had the rubberdup. Iron grip. Velco and a panic attack. Always two steps away from rubbin’ under.
From whence did hence?
Baltimore, Boston, Burlington, Boxville, Biscuitcar, Bip. They came from all over. Blixbeeburg. But funny–and you never heard this from me–they never, not even just once, bummed their bumpers on broadway. Digestives too soak too long. Drink your cookie slop and coffee kiss.
And wouldya ‘gain?
What day is it?
No. Check no.
Would car you could car you?
In little land of hammie can, little Libble scribble scribble. Little Tibble nibble nibble. And big, big Boturb soap and buckurb. In fifth of February I would lay the nap. Hope in sap. And bees.
If forty to thirty.
I would run the other way twice, do it again, then bloody beg my knees to do it the exact same only backward then. Give ‘er a good rub, I would. I would jip jap three Saturdays (thrice on the third) and every other Thursday of every quarter month.
Because if I am the king, then I bee the sting. Tell me. You catchin’ my direction? Am I tossin’ whatchafetchin’? Neosporin is bad, bad, bad for the breeze.
Pros and cons of sex men on sex women (three afternoons and sideways).
You bob it off it twists the same. Never ever. Wind up wrongsides. Flippant Shelly like harps amid the cold wind. Jilly Jilly. Time. You multiply the horny by irrelevance and see what kind of numbers you come up with. Never heard such muck. Kick ‘em while their down and hug straight have ‘em off again. Sure. But whose biscuits are you burnin? Look in the mirror. Spurn yourself.
Where does it all go and what is it all for?