Communication with sea life

Title: When You Put Your Ear to a Seashell Shaped Telephone, You Won’t Hear the Ocean but You Will Hear a Dial Tone

Synopsis: Will you be my quesadilla princess? This question and dozens of similar oddities await you inside, When You Put Your Ear to a Seashell Shaped Telephone, You Won’t Hear the Ocean but You Will Hear a Dial Tone. This book contains a collection of stories and illustrations crafted with the short attention span in mind. Inspired by a twisted perspective of perfectly normal everyday people, places and things, readers should be prepared  to question everything they ever thought about pork tenderloin, Stephen King, and Lunchables. 

Example: Stand on the edge of outer space and consider bread nipples. Your dreams only come true when you’re considering whether or not peeling yourself like a purple onion will bring you closer to understanding why freaks like their milk with a side of malted prune residue. The sensation created when you talk about things related to daddy monsters directly corresponds to moon parties thrown by little guys swinging dandelion umbrellas by their pinkies. 

Unleash the beast who is performing a perfect pike position while hovering above ground at an altitude of 9 fun. It will help you take the greatest pleasure in indulging in a bath of discarded floppy disks covered in purple honey and glue. The harvest yields a bounty of dead fisherman who spent their lives waiting for the perfect smiling tuna with horn rimmed glasses and a mohawk Rufio would be proud of.

Instagram this pony thief wearing oreo-shaped headphones as he teaches pig daddies how to cook themselves over an open flame. Promises made while we were reclining in the solar system weren’t kept for a reason. Observe John as he juggles wontons filled with old jelly and cynical, growling midgets trying to punch through the gelatinous membranes of Asian pastries. 

On another note, relax about bitching wives who insist on jacking up the price of Aqua Net on Mother’s Day. They’re just peeved about having to put the toilet seat down after John Ackroyd takes a piss and staples his shirttail to the hand towel. Don’t mistake death for the feeling of liquid evaporating through your pores as you sit in the dust chamber of a vacuum.

If you ever catch a dad mumbling in a souped up rocking chair, you know he’s probably dreaming of pissing on fireflies and taking out his anger on kale plants with a weed wacker. It’s the rising of the potato man at every quarter moon that can make a person go crazy and put on bat wings made out of a dozen or so fruit rollups all stapled together. 

He who hangs out in a snow suit is likely to behave in a way comparable to the Pillsbury Doughboy on a rampage in Daytona Beach. Raking your lawn full of Almond Joy bars isn’t the way you thought your day would start, was it? It never is. Get out your video camera when fun-sized candy bars whip their way into your home and pelt your kids with chocolate lashes of criticism and artificial coconut flavoring.

Take a pit stop to laugh at dead bread at home, home on the range. This excessive behavior makes your teeth look like pretentious female deer who wince at things related to bat hooves and miracle dragon putty. Why do you insist on behaving like hair is a renewable resource? Everyone knows that once you reach a height 245 centimeters your scalp starts smiling and your head transitions to a happy dome of pink chalk and wonton wrappers.

For one minute, pretend like Peter Brady is your dad. I’d like you to perform when I clap my hands and give you the secret gypsy signal we’ve all been taught to ignore. If braille were made out of Pop Rocks and everyone licked signs instead of feeling them, all of our heads would explode. That sums up the fear everyone has about rabid giraffe tribes enslaving humans and making them baste turkeys with motor oil.

Are you ready to get weird toasters in the mail? Inhaling the beautiful notes of poppyseed and fermented rosemary, one can speculate that this disaster area used to be home to femur magic and bogus pony dads. It’s never as severe as you think it’s going to be, even in circumstances when you don’t understand why jello molds shaped like sarah jessica parker sell more quickly than badger puffs.

Look me in the eyes and distract me while you take off your nose and hold it up to the nearest tornado siren. Your senses intimidate the loneliest pool boy who is trying to save up enough money to teach pork how to turn back into pigs. Whistle bad tunes into chlorinated body bags. Dead guys drool when corn cobs smile and take pictures of milk potties. 

Will you be my quesadilla princess? I’ll drive over your face with my purple Scion while muttering lines from your favorite episode of “Married with Children.” If you took Danny DeVito’s lifestyle and idealized it in a way only repurposed otters could think about, you’d have a messy diaper filled with truffle mac & cheese and thawing Wonder Bread scraps. 

Donkey lies make tiny feet kick cranberries off of scaffoldings made of pretzel rods and funny dumbs. It’s like soccer took on a new meaning and forced Pat to take a leap of faith and scream about blood buckets and yesterday’s garbage. I hope you find meaning in those crawl space tours you like so much. Poppy Sanchez is waiting for you to send him a LobsterGram. 

Stand on the edge of outer space and consider bread nipples. Your dreams only come true when you’re considering whether or not peeling yourself like a purple onion will bring you closer to understanding why freaks like their milk with a side of malted prune residue. The sensation created when you talk about things related to daddy monsters directly corresponds to moon parties thrown by little guys swinging dandelion umbrellas by their pinkies. 

Unleash the beast who is performing a perfect pike position while hovering above ground at an altitude of 9 fun. It will help you take the greatest pleasure in indulging in a bath of discarded floppy disks covered in purple honey and glue. The harvest yields a bounty of dead fisherman who spent their lives waiting for the perfect smiling tuna with horn rimmed glasses and a mohawk Rufio would be proud of.

Insult me while I dance on the physical representation of your sorry life story. It takes one to be one, Patrick says. Sip hot lava through a bendy straw instead of piercing it with a tuning fork and singing through clenched teeth. If you smile at the left corner of your bathroom mirror, it will only be a matter of time before dudes come out of your pipes and sing you lullabies while you perform tricks on your ancestor’s snare.

It will take all of the bone juice in the world to penetrate the thick cloud of Douggie Spectrum clogging up my retinas. Why would I buy a bread machine only to speed up the spin cycle when washing baby corn? It’s like an avalanche of smoked gouda took over Annapolis, Maryland and squeezed all of the orange fabric into a messy pulp of nectarine ashes. Call me when it’s my turn to get a piggyback ride from Stephen King.

Remove the stick of butter from your ear canal and wish upon a dude. Taking a horoscope and putting it in a mixing bowl of sadness will help you reflect on your decisions influenced by horse men and sacrificial peanut gravy. I want to cover your black feet with a hope blanket and send you well wishes for a life of fertility and moody moms. It’s a little crazy how much a shoe full of cookie dough will change your perspective on predicting the weather.

Call me pizza craft. I can’t wait to share your pocket dust with my family over dinner. It takes the edge off of the talks no one wants to have. Don’t we all want to be understood without speaking a word? Take a cupcake and put it in the morning machine to make a muffin. It’s as simple as splitting peas and keeping the peace.

Preach about intergalactic species taking over Planet Weird. A hairbrush only goes so far as a paddle for spanking misbehaving children on the brink of setting their family heirlooms on fire with a blow torch. Take this White Castle crave case and show me what your insides are made of. Never underestimate the power that bacon-flavored laundry detergent has on premature babies talking about how they’ll make their parents breakfast when they’re old enough to reach the stove.

I dare you to create a figment of imagination so potent your nostrils will flare at the sight of pandas on their hind legs, waving cans of soup and pinto beans in a circular motion above their heads. It’s exhausting trying to strategically draw a mole on your face that doesn’t look like a mistake. Obviously you put your makeup on in the dark this morning.