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off rhythm laughter. [the c o l o r s edition]

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[The Festival Project ™ ] Look, I've got some… time. How much time we talking? Enough. Alright, what's that make us? A deal. Alright. But you have to be quiet about it. Body is a minimum concern But accolades, achievements, Education— If you want to know, A billion's the goal— There's a goldmine full of pretty, perfect women But what are you worth, And where is your value What are you, earth, sir? Where are your manners, and What are your limits, And who are your partners— The son is the prize, And the reward, A daughter Now what are you on? I still don't know what you're on about. The show of the shelf life is done, And finally, All the hazards are uncrossed You know what you've done And you know what to do And you know who you are And you know what you want So the time for the gripping Has come down upon us The seams that are ripping Are nothing short of humongous How's that for a tadpole to a whole frog!? Watch it, turtle monster Before I put you down to run, And forgot what I had before Besides a gun And a habit to write And a real dark home And indeed, the words were also dark But written golden Golden shark Upon a park bench Put you back but don't you know To take a flash drive from a DJ Is much like Stealing a surfer's wetsuit It just like, Bad karma, man It's bad karma, Mark . I wrote— a passbook— where is it? You wrote— what? Where is it? Mi wrote it! Where is it? Wrote what? I wrote everything! I don't remember writing any [passbook] I'm a writer! A writer?! Oh, come on, Jimmy! Don't “Jimmy” me! You're starting to sound like… Wait a minute. Ah. Tina?! Don't be angry! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! I knew It! You didn't know anything, you were yelling at me like I'm that old lady! You are that old lady! *hugely gasps* DREW BARRYMORE Oh, you are so exorbitantly fucked. Where is she?! You have a— habit of always asking me these things before I really know the answer lately. Where's the scribe!? Is that who she is? You are supposed to be my predecessor! Stop being angry! I'm—very upset— And let go of me. This is aging me. Rapidly. Yay. Listen, I don't know what the fuck I said but— I need a liaison. For what exactly. Anything, apparently. Oh shit. The crazy thing about this one is— Yo Tina Fey is an almost elitist sort of shapeshifter. She's so sub —fuck. [—bliminal with it.] Someone keeps interfering with my signal. They can do that. They can broadcast Saturday night live to the entire world from the top of the World Trade Center, they can do anything. That's perfect— telemetry! Or just— telepathy. In a not so far dimension for continuity piurposes. J.Pierpoint Morgan— No, not yet, Oh okay. THE STRIKE FORCE FIVE have gathered in an office with a collection of other HOSTS. JIMMY FALLON sits leaned back on the couch in an unassuming hoodie, with the hood pulled over his face. He seems younger than usual, and somewhat bored. I knew his hair wasn't falling out anytime soon— —damn those genetics— So still I slowly but carefully salt and peppered each and every streaking strand that sprung forth from his wisdom. Hahaha! Yo. Crazy. Somebody needs to kill this bitch. It's too late. She can't be stopped! No! What! Crazy. She's… too powerful. I agree. I sort of accepted the relative silence in my apartment as if they'd gotten what they wanted— seeing Aliocha's number over and over as a way to succumb eventually to my inherent death— and at least then there would be peace. As it were, I was enjoying my time reading the New Testament Psalms above any of my other reading materials, which included a book on music business and even a portfolio of festival stages; this seemed of no mere coincidence, but as if of course the books were placed in my path within time that i'd find them returning from my radio show–and I did. But more fascinating than any book on the music business, or seduction, or the laws of human nature, or the art of war, was a hotel copy of the new testament, to which I took an immediate liking, with the understanding of this religious texts translations that I supposed writing almost seemingly endlesslessly myself had simplified. It seemed less boring than the last time I'd read it–and then again, the last time i'd read it, it wasn't as deliberately poignant as it sat now in the palm of my hands. I spent more time with it than the other books, although I loved Robert Greene, and even though i'd had the art of seduction on repeat by way of audio book, reading it through now seemed almost disturbing in nature, because on so many levels, there wasn't a time in my life where I could think to that this art didn't apply. Indeed, I was a true romantic, and then had in a way obliged myself to be seduced over and ...