• Breath – gaseous coins we spent on air hockey and miniature tables to put our real coins on #90sslang6 minutes ago from web

• Punanigram – Mixing up all the letters stored in a girl’s vagina, in her letter pouch, to make new vagina words #90sslang10 minutes ago from web

• WWF – a charity that reminded everyone that life was a confusing maze of crises, and bathed ducks or something #90sslang11 minutes ago from web

• Laser Dandy – laser version of the phonocube that stored high fidelity recordings of children not learning to work for a living #90sslang12 minutes ago from web

• Clip Hop – a kind of music in which the rap beats are provided on one CD, and the vocals are provided in a severed horses hoof #90sslang13 minutes ago from web

• Bedazzlement – the feeling of growing old and realizing that few of your friends are left alive, and those few are really gross #90sslang15 minutes ago from web

• A Roll Hamper – the kind of car you modified so you could fit a lot more sandwiches by the typically 90s grappling hook launcher #90sslang16 minutes ago from web

• No Duh, Grant – how pre-teens dealt with shadows they thought were stealing their secrets – #90sslang17 minutes ago from web

• Candy Man – a man whose sneakers were covered in glowing gems that he presumably found in one of those 90s UFOs #90sslang19 minutes ago from web

• Steppin Around – willfully disregarding the good of the clan by marrying a woman of the clan MacGreggor #90sslang19 minutes ago from web

• Plague – a way for rappers to spread death and chaos through rural areas without sanitation #90sslang20 minutes ago from web

• Bluejays Baseball Game – anything that was good, or super eg “This is a real bluejays baseball game, your majesty” #90sslang21 minutes ago from web

• Lady of Falcons – a “sister” who really had it “going on” in the “haunted vagina” full of “ghosts” – #90sslang22 minutes ago from web

• the Gray Mistress – the internet #90sslang23 minutes ago from web

• Talk-pipes – the internet #90sslang23 minutes ago from web

• Babe Dracula – a guy who likes to date pretty girls and then post about them on his all HTML webpage full of <hr>  tags #90sslang23 minutes ago from web

• Chesterfield Sunday – brutal slaying of children in a driveby, on a specially rigged sofa on wheels – #90sslang24 minutes ago from web

• Who is responsible for releasing the dogs out? – Question used to weed out weak links in the social hierarchy – #90sslang25 minutes ago from web

• Ka-Zong! – exultation of breaking free from one of those moist man sized cakes we used to get trapped in in the 90s #90sslang26 minutes ago from web

• Homeboat – A male urbanite whose home is in a rusty chest, that he thinks is a boat.  Nice try, ding dong. #90sslang26 minutes ago from web

• Serpent Wizard – A man who slithers around the dance floor, conjuring bats.  Who let that guy in?  #90sslang27 minutes ago from web

• Here are some 90′s slang terms you dont’ hear much anymore #90sslang

“Honey, I need my $20″, I yelled, the pizza guy getting anxious. but it was too late, she had found the woman i hid in my $20. #wifejokes

Q: What is a wife? A: A knife. #wifejokes

Q: Where does a wife go to enter her dormant phase and heal her deep cuts and wounds? A: Wherever her gestation capsule is buried, holmes.

I wasn’t scared. The eagle had no power over me, except for magic power, magic power that made me scared. #eaglejokes

I was on an escalator, or as I call it, a moving wife staircase that I may also travel on with my wife. #wifejokes

The perfect wife is always patient and lives in the moment. She lives in only one location in time, the Now. She is not a time traveler.

The perfect wife has 2 cups of milk ready. One is in case she drops a previous unspecified third cup of milk, and the 2nd is good too.

“Do you love me?” i asked the wife. But i didn’t need to know the answer. I was just robbing her. #wifejokes

Q: When does a wife learn? A: Between 4 and 6 PM, when her monitor takes its nap. #wifejokes

Q: What part of the wife is most virtuous? A: The Glass Part

Q: How close to the sun is that wife, anyway? A: 24,000 KM.

When a wife and her friends come in, don’t say “hey, it’s a bunch of hams.” They’re not hams. They are wives. Get it right, dumbo #wifejokes

She said she just wanted me to love her, and i said I just wanted a car with its own twitter account. There’s just no telling some people.

Gary has a new wife. What happened to the old wife? She grew a tail. Old Wife’s Tail is also a pun on old wive’s tale. #wifepuns

Wives for miles and miles, each one with her own ruby red sled, and a cap made of the finest leather. It was paradise #wifeparadise

“You are a bad criminal,” said the judge. “I sentence you to the worst punishment of all, to get married to a WIFE.” #ihatehavingawife

The face sucking alien stoped for a moment and let me breathe. That is when i saw that it wasn’t’ an alien at all, but Brenda, my wife

Sarah Palin is the WIFE version of George Bush. #wiveisbad

I was in Syria, being tortured, and they asked me if i wanted to call my wife. It was good to laugh again (At my wife) #wifeissostupid

What do you call a magic spell that can kill a penis and all the fun in the world just by being a total jerk? I call it “my wife” #wifepain

If space has a wife, i bet that’s why space doesn’t really give up any of its secrets very easily. Space is whipped. By a wife. #wifedays

Q: What’s worse than a dead dog? A: A live dog, that you are married to. If you are not married to it, its just a good friend. #dogwife

If your wife was a jar, good luck finding a place to put your nails and screws of different sizes. That jar will NEVER open #nosexwifejokes

If your wife was invisible but her clothes were not invisible it would be weird to see just her clothes. What a fuc*ing bit*h! #wherewife?

What’s that echo? Why, that’s just the sound of my bachelor days bouncing around in a big empty vagina. #bestwifejokesoftime

If your wife was a mountain she’d probably be Mount Nagsalot, or Mount Brenda. #brendanagswife

When my wife goes to the store, she really goes AROUND the store (to get what she wants to buy). #badoldwife

I was thinking of getting my wife a present, but then i remembered that wife is not good. Wife
is bad. hate wife.

Yesterday, my friend called me and my wife didnt’ even tell me. I dont’ understand why she would just try to hurt me all the time #truewife

I saw a website “wifeonwifeaction.com” What does it show? A wife standing on another wife’s shoulders to increase her cruelty range? #wifes

Q: How do you defeat wife? A: (working….)

Q: When does wife stop making sad?! A: Life is over, put dreams to sleep.

Wife is snake? Explains wife’s long pieces of skin and why wife eats mice. Oh, just snake actually. #justasnakenotawife

I”M SO FUNNY!

The frownlife in which i wallowed was insular to my identity. THere was no compatriot who could share this banal imprisonment within bowels of the frowny face. These bedsheets, the doctor, the hospital, toronto, canada, metropolitan earth, it was all a psychosomatic symptom of a disease of being eaten by, again I state, a frowning face from between the galaxies. Nuts.

They say that the only way you become utterly and hopelessly corrupted by the banality around you is by engaging with it. The moment you imbue it with enough value to warrant your manners particles, the moment you granted it license to thrill, thrill no more that is.

People were often drawn into the frownlife, starting innocently enough by responding to gateway comments like “hot enough for ya?” and “elevator’s really moving up!” and “what’s up with these Vapsicorical Calcadorians and their damn phrase inducers?” (That last one being most ironic, since a Vpasicorical Calcadorian was a being that subsisted on the banality of observational phrases. They tended to cluster around white people and to a lesser extent, van people. Whenever anyone, anywhere, simply stated exactly what was going on around them (eg. it’s sure raining, the team has won the game, economy’s not doing too well, lots of people in this parade eh?, etc.) they were able to reproduce. That wouldn’t be so bad if their feces wasn’t the food for interphasic lips, the lips that kiss in twelve dimensions at once. The Vapsicorical Calcadorians developed a simple device that in the late 20th and early 21st centuries was able to induce phrases at alarming levels, leading to global warming. Some people at the time thought that the rise in global temperatures was caused by cars! Imagine that! Phrase pollution is infinitely worse.) Once such a phrase was engaged with, the engagement beam between the participants of the communion was used to transmit the eggs of further banalities. Thus it spread, from host to host. Only the truly heroic had the will power to refuse to return a meaningless “yep” to some observation about the bus stopping and starting jerkily. Eventually, everyone gave way, and the plague took them over.

Well not me. Not this kidney-possessing organism! Not this earth man of the future Canadarmok! I just had to hold on until i figured out how to return from frownlife into the normalverse, into the vacant arms of vacuum packed space, hoard of nothingness.

From my hospital bed i could clearly see the moon shining its evil face down on this doppleganger of early 21st century earth. Ahh the moon, moony old moon. Within two thousand years, all the earth’s gold would be there. The economy would escape the chains laid across its back by the governments of the world, and flee to the moon, to observe the world shrink into a dark age. THe economy and its empire on th emoon lunarized the whole solar system. It was the lunar system in those dark days, the sun reduced to a mere desk sergeant. Ride that desk into retirement, the moon used to say. Ride it all the way to florida, old timer.

The moon’s a real jerk, i hate the moon.

And then moon vanished right before my eyes. That asn’t supposed to happen. THen the stars, one by one, then by the dozen, whole fields of blackness absorbed them, packets of dark velvet sky spreading like oilspills over the skyponds of Valvarot.

The frownworld was beginning to give way. It knew i knew, and it wasn’t waiting for me to acceed and give up my personality for it to digest. I was an undigestible, and it knew it. I was the equivalent of gum. Worse, i was the equivalent of a grand old egg, from Eggmund Fraser’s University of Nondigestibles, all shiny with lardbodies and a side of framps.

There was only one solution. I had to convince the Pale Frown that i was food, that i was without imagination and pride. I had to engage my doctor on some recent headlines or some other such nonsense. Surely, with the aid of my vast interior library of affirmational teeth i would be able to awaken all my giants within and regain my individuality. By subsuming my personality in the gentle palpations of the oceanic sands of external aid, i would recreate my real self once i had learned to escape… i could give in.. and still be me…

i could give in…
i would still be me…

i could give in….

“so. Obamas having trouble with that healthcare.”

to be continued…

“Oh, he’s awake!” observed a glasses man standing in clothes at the foot of my bed. “You’ve had a troubling night, mister Fox.”

“Water,” i sang.

“Yes, water indeed. As i was saying, you’ve had a pretty tricky night last night. I’m not sure how to tell you this, so i’ll just come right out and say it.”

“Water,” i urged.

“THank you. And water to you too, mister Fox. Water and thine. Now, last night, you were placed within the bounds of what we in the medical profession refer to as an altercation. There was some shooting, and there were some bullets. Are you with me so far?

“Water.”

“Now mister Fox, I really must insist that you stop playing ‘Good old water talker’. THis is serious business. There are these bullets, you see? And they are somewhere. That’s what i’m reaching towards here. These bullets are somewhere. TOTALLY somewhere, in a major way. THis should be of interest to you, Mister Fox, as you are intimately acquainted with where they are. Now i’ll give you a few guesses, but after two or three, if you haven’t gotten it, then i really must insist that you allow me to ruin the surprise and just tell you. You may guess now.”

He was a true ancient man, down to his rigid endo-skeleton from which he suspended his fibrous organs and muscles. A true man of the age, in that regard. I stared into his peepers using my staring trumpet, hooked as it was, invisibly now, to my auralon duct. Visionscreaming into his eye, i had been lead to believe by numerous examples of classical music that I would be able to see his soul. This man had a soul of modified skin that abosrbed light and converted it into neurological impulses. He had a soul of retina. A true visionary.

“Are you going to guess?” he probed.

I was uncertain how to proceed. in situations such as this, situations where someone is talking to me, my normal solution is to drop harp-combs and really square around. Just angle it down to 90 for a little while, and let the harp get the tangles out. In a major way. BUt then again, who was I? merely the great harp-comber of the squaredown, eight years in a row. A memmory?! I had a memory. I was a harpcomber! I exherted myself in five dimensions, trying to pry my thoughbox open just enough to glimpse the hams inside, but nay, good friend. Nay, shan’t be.

“If you’re not going to guess, its going to make it very difficult to tell you what is happening.”

“Are the bullets in me?”

“Well that’s exactly the question i was going to ask. Yo usee, we just dont’ know. We do know that the bullets went into you, and never came out. We have very strong logical reasons to suport the conclusion that they are still within you, but we were hoping you might double check our reasoning before we proceded, lest we proceed on an irrational basis.”

I adored this man. He was the floor version of a wall-friend. A real land-touching wallclimber.

“Have you attempted to take them out? Or to have numerous universes formed inside them that might have, dare i say, jazz bullets, to negate the bullets in my box?”

“Jazz bullets?”

“Heavily improvised bullets. Very cool stuff.”

“Well, no. Here’s the thing. We didn’t operate on you because, well. We don’t want to get sued. YOu’re michael J Fox, and we couldnt’ really risk getting sued. And of course, the bullets appear to have completely cured your parkinson’s disease, and even your maddington’s disorder. You’re fremantle’s discression is still there though. If we removed the bullets, you may have parkinson’s disease again. We really, i mean this, don’t want to get sued.”

sued? What dull modern problems were these for a time travel story full of absurd and creative invention? What plausible explanation was there for bogging the story down in these feeble shades of modern commentary… unless… unless i was within the Panclasmic Albino, He Whitey, Yon Whitebrale, the Pale Frown itself.

Since frowning was first outlawed by the Allegiance of Mums after the deoderant purge of the age of hampers, the frowns were excommunicated from the temple of everyone’s face. Now, everyone knows that once banished, a frown, or even a fawn, will emigrate to any of the vast faces that float about in the tractless expanses between the estrellations, grinning at things, and otherwise commenting on the goings on of the cosmos in a self-satisfied but un-ignorable voice. Not only did the voice comment, and the face from whence it emerged like a clay egg, winked and smirked, but the whole apparatus constantly ejaculated stipulations. Stipulations as far as the face could ejaculate! Even on St. Stipulati’s day, and St. Ejaculus’ feast! In the history of the cosmost (the cosmos that has most things, but not all things), only one civilizatoin darred to disregard any of the stipulations thus ejaculated. I saw darred, because the punishment for having disregarded the stipulation was to forever have a 2nd R inserted into the word “dare” when used to refer to that civilization’s attempt to disregard said stipulation. The stipulation, it is said, was that should anyone ignore the stipulation being stipulated, they would have an extra R inserted in their dare. Right in front of women and semi-boys and their interminglings of fine tendrils!

One time, the Panclastic Albino destroyed the Osadi of the Osadi sector (coincidental name, the people “the osadi” are named for the Dohati Regis of Alcamon’s house, eventual unifiers of the Dovarian Peninsula, and the Osadi sector is named for Brad Osadi, the Regis’ cousin) after trasngressing one of its stipulations. IT rained down billions upon billions of flammable stipulations from orbit. Various animate stipulations scrabbled around and started whispering to people in their sleep that they should go extinct. Which stipulaation ultimately killed them? i don’t know. Probably it was the stipulation that, should they be attacked by the Frowning WInter, they go extinct. That was likely it, but then again, who is to say? The Stipulation Council’s indpendant Ombudsman, that’s who.

It was on such a ruthless grinning cosmic face that the collective frowns of over 50 anthrogygoli-colonids (each colonid comprised of 540 colonies, each comprised of at least 50,000 individual human bodies, held together by a sense of community, and a sense of ropes) made their homes.

Wink no more, ye faces of space, wink no more…

That face, itself an abnormal accretion of pale matter, a form of matter so pale that, until my lifetime, it was considered to be snow, or ghosts, was an outcast all its existence. it drifted like a grim sail through tractless expanses, treading its measure in isolation. But now, afflicted with rigor, and frowns cobbled together from smaller frowns, themselves cobbled together from yams, the pale face lost pace with its failed race, quail ace lace rail trace. And it’s basially this kind of thing that i’m talking about. This is the kindo f thing tha tmakes space so weird and nuts all the time. LIterally, if i had my way, or a druthers or two, i’d probably get some of the other dads in the neighbourhood together to just get this kind of thing out of here.

THe pale face meandered through everywhere, clasming things. Clastically clasming everything. Iconos? Clasted. Pryos? Clasted. Whitey-grim-face was a chilly pain and a spooky nuissance! His tight white lips didn’t just frown, they also kissed out white pucks that you couldn’t see on the ice. WHITE PUCKS! there’s no more frustrating variant of hockey, except “unrealistic hopes and goals” hockey. Or honkey.

Now, the face jsut eats people up and frowns them down. People who get frowned down into the face tend to start living boring existences. They live the frown equivalent of a life, inside the frowning face. THis life, this earth, this verdant isle, this plains rambling tear of Gaia, populated by these banal normals, and their insufferable chatter, must be, MUST, be a fownlife. What frowns are these?! BY MINE OWN!

But as frowns often do, things were about to go from frowns syndrome, to downs syndrome.

to be continued…