Archivo del Autor: Armando Segovia

16.20 por Avión… right now it’s 3.20 in Central NATO Time

LADIES IN GEMENI
Please get ready To Rumble.
It is TIME for
the one and only
The Consumate Showman
Impeachement Trials.

My–My… are those flowers for my Honey Bee? Or are You Just Happy to see me? -_!_- Technical Difficulties prevented us from adding the part of the frame that tells y’all how the other side of the Clock looks like; it’s fucking up-side down. You know, like the Outhouses-es-eses where the Shrimp is In the Bar-Bee, or something like that… according to Cheech Marin, Paul.

Yes, Ladies in Gemeni
Ewe [shepple] heard RIGHT
TRIAL in the Plural.
There’s a Merriam Webster’s
and
Petit Robert de La Langue Française
examples in One Page (alone)
[Zeppelin goes here]
to put together a new motherfucking
THEsaurus
of
Donald Trump’s
Criminal life.

Liar-Liar… it’s just a SuperTramp
Stick to the Facts and nothing but the
MF’n EP facts, Old Gringo…
You Bloody [Well-right] super tramp marrying Gringo…
You Bloddy [Well-off] super model marrying Gringo.

and Starring as himself Narm and Bathos all rolled up into the Trump Administration.

Liar-Liar… it’s just a SuperTramp
Coming to theaters in ROMA
soon.

TimeStamp: Veinte para la hora del Jazz.

Ladies in Gemeni, we [the staff] apologize for the untimely Gremlins that keep getting in the staff’s business, must be The WB frog.

For the record, the WB frog is currently being voiced by a young Mexican draft-dodging Mormon, de Chihuahua, his agent sent us a File screen–grab to clear any misunderstandings: The Lost frog has gone back tu Utah.

Ladies in Gemeni: Mitt Romney

Goodness Gracious, Merriam–Webster’s

Page 670; Eleventh Edition:
Japanese Spurge • JC A HO

Jazz, wait for it, wait…

Dear Jasmin, look again. Nothing is missing, nothing at all, not even Jason… that Rouge fucker is there in the very same page. It goes like so and such:

— Jas abbr James
— jas•mine ’jaz–mėn any of numerous of climbing shrubs… of the olive [Œil] family that usually have very fragrant flores… esp. Yellow Jessamine;
— Jason ‘jā-s ën some spy assigned to the Mediterranean Theater of Operations, he’s notorious for his succesful quest to deliver to the Russian the Golden Fleece at Trump Tower in New York City. A shifty character, but nothing that Peter Sellers couldn’t handle, even with three bourners cooking at once.

Symm•e•Try (it) “It’s Easy”, mira: La función Pública en Méjico and her husband would probably JOHN Hancock this entry as “Joker News”. — But, hey Colin Jost, Ewe know what’s no Joke, Gift–or–Not (motherfuking Michael Che?), do ya—Punk?… d’you two fuckers know what it is not a Joke? Take a closer look, g’ahead, Colin, if that’s your real name! Catch it yet, Harvard boy? Yeah—it’s funny how “every single Boxing movie girlfriend, in every Single Boxing Movie” looks Just like EVERY SINGLE NATIONAL SECURITY AND JUSTICE REPORTER with the ONGOING CRISIS ON THE U.S. — MÉJICO BORDER on the “msnbc’s”, man. That there, motherfucker, is not funny. And definitely not symmetric at all.

… anygüey, Jasmin, “jaun•dice” for, « Amarillo no me pongo, amarillo es mi color » is right THERE and just Below JAUNCE … the origin of that word is « unknown » but MW’s dictionary blames the FRENCH for coming up with JAUNCE.

Jay•walk, or JayWalker (pajari’Yo Verde) is the free•style that WELCOMES Su Majestad: Jazz.

Jazz•man, Jazz•Rock, and our favorite « Jazzy » gets off the J–Bar Lift because that dude can’t Ski, much less get off a lift, which is why his J C A HO or Joint Commission on Accreditation of Healthcare Organizations had no worries if her beau broke his fucking leg. She had pull with the doctors inside the Boys Room.

Now, get ready to switch this same word, Jasmin, over to page 476 inside the 2005 Edition of the GRAND DICTIONNAIRE, o como dicen las Jazmines en CASTELLANO: gran diccionario Larousse.

Saca la Jarana, —pariente— porque nos vamos hasta Xérès, which on the next page (477) of that Tome resulta una (gran) JODA para sacar la jerga de los de Jerez.

El ukelele no es otra cosa que una Jarana sin huapanguero, Güero… puro talento—puro Hartista y si no leen este intrascendente blog, sabrás que la Hache, pariente, ‘pos la « achis, achis, achis » esas son de a grapa y son mudas.

SyméTRIe here. Nahhhh, para nada Yasmin Vassouhian.

But check this next Spectacle coming up on the next page. Now that, Yasmin, is some Sympa Symbolisme in the form of a Consumate Showman.

AR 670–1–3… it’s an Army thing, Ewe wouldn’t understand the Symmetry in that spin. Six Seventy dash ONE. Ewe is out o’Uniform, « Commander–in–Chef » You, Sir, are one naked son-of-a-Bitch.

POST send: If, and only if you look close enough, you’ll discover that on page 671 on the MW’s dic.,:

— je ne sais quoi, zhë–në-,sā-‘kwä; … lit. Eye know not what: SOMETHING THAT CANNOT BE ADEQUATELY DESCRIBED OR EXPRESSED.

is right below the heading:

JCB • Jerusalem ARTIChoke

JCB as all scholars at the Underground Garage know, stands for JURIS CANONICI BeatleAureus

Jeop•AR•dy is right below zhë–pä,’Lâ–Vêrghå.

Luc, meet Salomé (4 ans) — Her Cake on a Parisian Podium

The following must be read in a Brian Williams voice:

To our viewers in the Outer Limits of our known universe. A birthday party in this marble is a countdown to a funeral.

Salomé turned 4 years of age and like many–many–many—many « chirrin’ » around this big stage that Talkin’ Head Monkees sometimes call The Globe, Salomé’s « parental units » seemed to have planned a birthday party, for her.

Something, however, seemed to have spoiled the celebration.

Oye Salomé, perdónalo. Donald Trump no sabe lo que hace, él apenas es un bebé..

Her cake was last spotted on top of a Parisian pedestal and a City of Lights lamp-post, just as the staff of this most inconsequential blog was making it’s way through a sea of ROMA still frames, —on their way to the forum.

We here at Rockefeller Plaza hope that little Salomé’s fortune cookie wasn’t printed with the same batch of ink that a Guatemalan girl got on the way to an Evergreen hospital in « Dat Dere » “West Texas Town of El Paso”.

Nope, this snapshot has no symmetry, none whatsoever. It’s just for the record, One can’t draw a real map, Pinochín, sin tener la dirección, o como dicen en El Sur: el Mero Norte.

In New York it’s the elleventh hour, and coming up, is the story of an eleven yeay–old girl, as told by a young Arab league… or something like that, at first sight, the spectacle looks like an episode of what Sarah Silverman would look like in a French BD. And no, silly, it’s not parallel to any Young Turk’s universe, para nada.

LUC… get yo’ass on the Cancha

¡Para todos los que quieren y Aman a Las Sirenas que Joue el Jazz!

All Caps… starring Kid Blue as the “fuck-up Turkey’s” guy… it’s 2020 and Older Joe is naggin’ Younger Joe how his Volume 2 is coming along. Young Joe responds (in French) maaaaaan! I’m already on Volume Three.

Esto es,
Sur les Jupes de la esposa del Emperador de Paris.

19.23
Luc Freeon toma la pelota,
hace un quiebre por Panda Village
dispara, y….
…..
…..
GOL! Gooooooool!
Goooooooooooooooool.

La portería es la antigua puerta de un antiguo restorán chino y adentro de ese espacio hay un portal que los changos parlantes identifican como un espejo con reflexión hasta el otro lado del reloj.

God Damn You, Lorne Michaels…

lMusic and Ninja Tuna Pick’s me Up!!!

Aloha… del verbo Alojar, not the other way around.

In This Episode:
The Blades are Out

Not only did Fucking Matt Hunting starred as
Good Will, but Sunny–Gringo,
you fuckers turned Sarah’s vulva
into a Vigina from
wait for it, wait…
in the mean time, while Trump,
—that motherfucker—
goes to Jail, we [the staff]
gonna add Color to the streets
of the Emperor of Paris.

It’s High Noon in CET
in the Search for ElDorado,
Sarah Silverman is turned into a
Perla Morena in the quadrant freq of:
The Ameri–Indien of Nueva Yo’l.

But speaking of New York,
its Blades
(con dos filos, not dos Güiros) out,
its Gangs,
its Emperors and their motherficking lingo.
Eddie “G” tells an Ol’ Rosbiff
(from the Ile of The Big Kat)
just how close Rats are to y’all.
…’lemme find that page demarcation.

Stephen, what page is the RAT Info at?

— Stephen responds:

It’s 12.20 in the afternoon!!!

To which Stephen replies:

The page number not the Time.

And, Stephen goes:

That would be page 32, under the letter delimeters starting with, lemme see, (Uhmmmm) DeDo; close, but not quite, EcHo, Fenst… Gang… Hotel… injunc… Ju–ju, ah! Here it is: Judas, page 32.

Cue Call : Brel get yo’ass on Stage.

Dear, Matt Hunting,

If you know what Jacques–es—es voice sounds like, just imagine his fucking grill yapping the following observation, but first, a word from our Sponsors:

It’s 2074 and when the mob wants to get rid of someone, the Bosses send their John Perkins-es’eses across time…

Joe-jeune is sent to Elysium to kick Matt Damon’s-es-es ass.

Mean, while, Trump figured out how to beat the American Justice League in the year of the WASP’s-es-eses Lord of 2019, that shifty motherfucker [Trump] came about some information regarding Ponce de León’s-es-es Fountain of Youth, which was smacked right in the middle of his motherfucking golf course in La Florida… where else, eh? Where else would the salvation for Donald “motherfucking” Trump be at? In Disneyland-Paris?

Try Disneyland-CHINA!!!

Which is why the Bosses sent Joe-âgé to the Yellow River to give that motherfucker, Donald Trump, a hair cut. Joe-âgé had grow fond of the “hair products holding Back Pack”, that as a Young man he had taken from Matt Damon, but unlike the little fucking Christmas ornament batteries that Will Hunting relied on to make his clippers work, way back en “el año del caldo” del Señor de Los Cielos de 1997, batteries which by-the-Güey, always died when you needed them fuckers the most, Joe-âgé relied on a more classical form of grooming as he went ahead and kept the Old Gringo’s shaving blade that was bestowed upon him by the old Indiana Cartographie Officer from the great State of Indiana, a State which the current vice-president (2018) had transformed into a Corporate bitch for the Medical Industry corporations that left the Hoosier State insolvente, o como diría a French Speaking Jodie Foster-âgé: INSOLVABLE.

… anygüey, to make a long tale short, when the motherfucking batteries from the Weinstein Company failed the Matt Damon Clippers, Joe-âgé went ahead and gave Donald Trump the only HairCut that motherfucking Bruce Willis had in his “stylist” choices: the Indian Scalping.

And just to fuck with Will Hunting, Bruce Willis (in the Role of Jacques Brel) said to the Fat Lady at the End Crédits line:

How Do EWE, Like them Fiona Apples.

 

22 hundred hours — 96 to Montparnasse

¿Cómo chingados está mi General?

¿Se imagina usted,
mi General,
si asté, lo hubiese parido su chingada madre el mero día de La Natividad?
¿A qué clase de Pachucos le daría apertura La Concha de su madre para que renombraran ese Holiday?

Se imagina usted a doña Vivianita repartiendo Merry–MxMás como si fuera Bolo del Día de Reyes.

Attentamente:
Octavio Paz

Hercules, meet Magallanes, he’s on page 849 under the section DÉC… It’s now or Never.

Rue de l’Arrivée en Route to La Porte de France on the 89.

Dear Comadre Letty… See Saw’ got pretty eyes, but aquí entre nos, qué pedo con El Emperador de Francia?

Que los pinches frogs no tienen otro Cassel que no pueda* tenga tener el monopolio del bang–bang?

En contexto con Mapple Higginmuffin
para los rosbif’s de la britanica
and the East India Company
at the Frogs and British Library.

It’s 11.30 and Maple orders a beverage from Hot Chocolate at Sugar Daddy’s Indiana joint.

Damn, now that’s some funky magic ewe got in that Chocolate, Maple says, after a sip of the frappe that Oyuki brought to the table. The Rain had stopped and after a few sips it was time to open the Haine files and see about this Cassel character and the cash–cow that followed from the film’s take in the Asian market.

A pair of lamehuevos had been scouting Maple for a few  blocks now. It was no big deal, Maple was happy to amuse the Von Dutch uniform wearing customers. But tonight happened to be Sunday, and on Sunday, Maple limits her Mandarin Cobra dole-outs to One. So the tab for the hot chocolate was cleard at the counter with Curly, a ginger who was also on the Futuro Pelo bandewagon.

And on behalf of The Dangling Particlples, please accept all apologies and keep that squelch – on until the fat lady doles out the End Credits of 1984.

To which, Paul replied:
That would make it Nineteen Hundred and Eighty Five,
o como dicen los muy–muy franceses…
Why bother, it’s too much multiplication.

Intermedio

You know, little Joe, it’s a good thing that the Sirens don’t bother listening to their own Programming thru images, because if they did, we [the staff] would know that a Certain canvas on the Seine has been BlackListed.

— isn’t that a bit Paranoid? Said the little Gizzard.

To which Ozzy replied:

It’s nine o clock at night in CET
and Public Opinion in Africa all agree
Busta Rhymes is on a Dangerous Destination or something like that.

Earlier in the programming: Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting, « so hard », Bro.

… Yo’, Comadre Letty,  where’all The Girls at?