STANK YOU
In our enriched world of selfish prowess there has been an aggressive expulsion of human gas bomb toxicity. Crop dusting. Flesh suits releasing sulfur-riddled pop flops rectally. Sneeze burp cough blowouts should never be categorized in the same dimensions as the dusters.
There was a level of trust between the releaser and what was to be presented on a public stage. In years prior, the flatulent were discretionary in the launch of their air plop darts. Society is now festering with noxious fecal molecule tossing assailants who are saturating naïve spirit faces around every corner. Chaotic fluff release mischief days need to be terminated. Fresh air has been missing for more than three years causing frown pants vibes in wonder work lands.
Smile Central, Inc. has invented a remedy to annihilate grotesque outhouse theatrics in addition to instituting a revenge implosion mechanism on any offender seasoning their crops.
Turnkey laboratories in Papa New Guinea funded by commission checks from child actors granted Smile Central, Inc. the landscape to create the STANK YOU.
This penlight keychain attachment or body piercing will blanket light on invisible poison dust minefields that every end user has been forced to eat with their nose holes. Following dispatch of organic prisms across sanitation dump lands emitted from cotton ass samurais, all spotlighted gas fumes will now remain visible while also linking themselves to the releaser until CSI scrub clean moments. Now the world will handcuff those offending soup clouds to their rightful owners.
Bonus features allow customers to instantly mask offending body dumps with three scented mist cheer flavors: bubble bum blaster, Hella vanilla or Snicker doo-doo’s. Flavor scent pods will soon be available for drone delivery in the event concerts or conventions are on the itinerary requiring continuous deployment.
The time is now in which we can reclaim those natural vapor trails of yesteryear. Fresh air saves smiles. STANK YOU thanks you, your nose will love you.
feathers
I think it was when I consumed her swagger buckle slide
while just missing each other on
the Charmin toilet paper endcap
an arrangement was proffered when our metal carts crashed
on linoleumed aisle seven
between creamed corn and taco sauce packets
‘Can I touch your beard?’ spilled from this strawberry cowgirl’s mouth
‘Well, I’m not a pet, but sure. I should be allowed one question in return, don’t you think?’
a frown smile massaged itself against her rouged cheeks
while three brown duck feathers fell from between her tan sundress legs
my life would never be the same
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Berthed from mischievous leprechauns near technicolor shadow lands surrounding Honah Lee, Theodore Wallbanger rides mysterious sparkle railcars bursting with crunchy cotton candy clouds dispatched from slippery erotic massage vixens who rage pillow laugh hourly within a splintered transportation module that screams along butterscotch wonder tracks forming vibrations for audiences across Sugar Hill Mountain.
Image generated on Magic Studio
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