Like a Dagoba hangover sludged in a bulge of mental diarrhea, homo sapien-sapped thespians wake up with their wings in the shit. Librarians, lawyers, Tom Sawyer’s hair stylist, Jack the Ripper’s cadaver makeover miracle maker all get their wits in a twit.
Artists, writers, Jim Henson’s right-hand man may make colossal religions out of creative block, but every man, woman, little green guy drains brain’s desperation down the drain on a universal basis. Desperation blues bruises our skin like little blue elephants trampling Yoda’s scrotum when the Tums won’t hum the whiskey into submission.
But as desperate as the thick may take, as dense as sense makes cents, imagination’s pain bends with perspective. Leave your brain a long time ago, go lax far away, step out of the ooze, and the hangover booze of the marsh screws loose.
Do or do not; do not try- size matters not when you bend with the slime, make-believe the marsh’s a marshmallow, the sludge of edible rubber, the bulge of extraterrestrial chewing gum from Chewbacca’s sack full of candy.
Imagine your sin’s marshmallow. Every mark you’ve ever missed, every wrong in a g-thong is just the gooey mass of humans being human. Forgive your empty bliss. Time doesn’t have to be right all the time.
Give it up to the fire. Melt molten marshmallow down the Hershey’s of a missed-masturbation Graham Cracker. Let the thick drip slowly, swollen bubbly until the ooze drips down the stick. Burst into flames if you have to, sacredly sacrifice the Stay Puft for Ray Parker, Jr.’s soul.
Bill Murray never minds, whether its ghosts the size of marshmallows or gophers on LSD. When movie sets collide, you know he and Yoda will be toking it up on a leather couch, wondering what it’s all about. Are Ray Parker, Jr. and Lando Calrissian twins, ying and yang in past lives, or stunt double alternates for Days of our Lives?
Take your mind off the gophers, lull the marsh mellow, raise your X-wing right out of the shit. Go with it.
What would Yoda do? Jedi Kung-fu makes an ultimate guru.
