Wendy and Wendall were sharing a headache one afternoon in Manhattan's
Inner West Thigh when one of the crankiest subways they had ever seen
careened into their mutual cappuccino. Wendy inquired of her lover a
dollar and twenty-five cents with which they unhelmetedly shared a
toboggan ride around and around the hundred pound cratered castle to the
East of their painful Omaha. If Wendall would sputter and gripe that all
his blister pickings got blown aloft in the gust of Wendy's opened purse
then she would snap his guts out through his gaping throat and lovingly
cram them into her sphincterial ears. Such was the stuff of their
romantic voyages through choleric assassinations -- nothing junked and
mothering sprained -- but then Wendall pounced on the jive of many
throneless nations with a cataclysmic outpouring of adhesive labels
marked "Baskets," "Porridge," "Signatures," and "Zippers." And from Tuesday
forward the utility of Wendall's tired spigots razed the pre-printed
concerns of poultry executives throughout Chile's underpants.


Zip it up.