Do mythic pair double-u

skip’un is damn bangladesh fashion hive sniffin essex (skee’ole! so) surly fuss and oboe boas. Sis flew modeless fair sat sofa faye, “Ham puff lit pass ajar edges.”
“Glow shack is this damn officer?”
“Sensei’s fib sob,” hide kazoo.
“Zoe wrote hat?”
“Erode.”
“Dandy sops paid, end five fellow ices.”
“Rotor sap dishes broke?”
“Dishrag do,” Sofia said. “A real ox soap.”
“Weep eh? e-tard. A prêt. His trachea heckle minnow. Nice pasta sifty beefy access low!”
“Hush! Half-raid! Wore!”

And and something something

Undeniably without a doubt I and myself conducted and performed a creative experiment the workshop for potential literature (Ulipo) invented and created doubling and increasing by itself each and every thing or object of any and all phrases or statements in order to make the process and device apparently blatant with or without mentioning or withholding previously said restrictive constraint.

Swallow the BIGness

In the night, my feverish head between Momma's warm rough hands. Almost a comfort, still raw from dishwater and slick with grease. "Turn on the light," I heard her say though no one did for a very long time. I thought that if she moved at all that my head might come off in her hands. She might still have the skill to mold it back to how it was and stick it there. She was full of gravity, having grown older and fatter. She didn't move but held me still as the rest of the room turned and ground bigness like a fist into my stomach.

I felt her fingers pressing my neck, but heard her already in the kitchen. She was wetting a cool rag. I heard the slop of the water the whine of the pipes. And always, no matter what she was doing, inexplicably, a clanging of large iron pots. "I'll be right back," she whispered in my ear.

It was dark in the room, the stiff comforter scratching my naked thighs. The kitchen light cut the floor like a slice of orange, and there was a rumble in the driveway. My head was still stretching toward the ceiling, Momma gently wringing my neck like the neck of a chicken and we did a tippy toe dance into the living room to see. The screen door creaked open and the doorknob was turning, but I was suddenly blinded by the washrag Momma slapped on me. It smelled of bleach and piss. "Thanks Jean," Momma said to herself. "Sure no problem" Jean said. "We're going to blow this bastard to smithereens!" "To kingdom come." "Our will be done!" "Holy shit, yes!" said Jean. And I heard them slap palms.

And sure enough it was Daddy who came through the door, I could hear his voice say "Woah!" He looked like a bear through the thin washcloth and I wondered what sort of comfort I was supposed to be deriving from this. They converged on him, though my eyes might have been crossing from the fever or the ammonia or whatever.

The pair of hands still on my neck roughhoused me into a corner then finally let me go. My head began to wiggle upwards from the rest of me and the rag slipped off my face. I tried to hold my head steady with both hands, but my palms were so slippery sweaty; I felt it inching up. In the kitchen the light was blazing but, there was no one around. I looked toward the door which was now closed and on the floor, near the Welcome mat, there was a gleaming brown stain freshly mopped.

"Godamn it! Turn around so I can see about you!" Momma screamed from behind me and she surprised me so much that I lost my head completely and it smacked almost immediately and painfully into the ceiling where it bobbed and rolled. At last, I vomited. I was the potato salad, I knew. I'd had too much and the mayonnaise was questionable. Momma cursed and whistled for back up. And Jean and Jean came running in with brooms. "I really feel a lot better," I called down as Momma batted my head. "Then you'll clean this toute de suite," she called and I knew that I probably wouldn't get out of it this time because even as she beat me with brooms I saw her filling a bucket with water.