for ryan: ilene on me when you're not strong

when i tali up my puns, i find that i am satisfied with many of them. i often poritz through my material, looking for old gags that can be incorporated into my "work." abrams often tells me the mark of a good comic is to pekar at what other comedians are doing and to steal their lines. while i have nerves of steel, it hurts me in the pittsburgh of my stomach to rob from williams, or anyone else, for comedians are deacons of hope to the world, and i don't care what bob, elmo, or anyone else says, i will not use other people's material. i am my own mann, allison, and while it is a lonnergan road to travel alone, i would rather walk it than accompany kevin, for his johnson often protrudes, and i don't want my sun to be exposed to such filth. dogg, i am hounded by these thoughts, and while i maybelle recover from them, it's a big concern for me. joe, help me turner the page on my infatuation with patti. i need a patti on the back right now. perhaps john will go with me to denver and show me the elway to happiness, but alas, it is johnny most likely a connie job. he will not appear, and i will be stuck with panama francis, and while the duran ran ran the duran ran, that doesn't help me right now. jackie, please help me mclean up my act and lead me out of the woods, for i'm tired of this stitt. phil me up buttercup, don't break my heart, and return me to alto acres. i need to find the mark. where is he? where are you? where is the dream we started? i can't believe we've parted, where are you? moses he parted the sea, but i just want him out of my hair. i want to live in the hair and now. i just need to keep my head above water, and to lay off potato chips when i am down by the riverside. ahmet a nice guy dowd by the atlantic ocean. he sold me a billy club.
where have all the good lines gone? are they buried in grooveyards all over this land, harold? carl me up if you find them, and trumpet the results. as for me, i lena on the music of shirley scott, and often think of donating my organs. i guess i'll hang my tears out to dry humor.
that line was a cereal killer. you may find me corny, but i ain't no flake, and i got my shit in chex, and i'm on it like white on rice krispies, and i ain't gonna tom like jerry for none of you cats. i don't care if you think it's a mickey mouse issue, for i get a kix out of what i do, and i think i am outward bound to get some respect from you natural women out there. think of freedom, and say a little prayer for all those suffering from warwick, and who are diane needlessly. i would brake my bacharach to improve their ronnie lott, and to lead them to safety, for their pain is wide, and they have received no justice as of yet. they are hungry you see, and berry juice can only carry them so far. still, i halle their courage, for they carey a heavy load, and alba sure to acknowledge their fortitude. i am fortitude years old, if i'm a dorris day. g-d, i'm caught between a rock hudson and a hard place. what is there for me to do? should i call eric fromm baltimore? i will if i can russell up his phone number. i want to tell the story of how eric met an old man at the c, but i never get it wright, so perhaps i should just relax and listen to my mills brothers record. i just wish my blog would get a little ink in the papers, but they tell me it's a little spotty. if i didn't care, i wouldn't feel this way, but for now, i feel like i have reached helen earth.
im dyin here.
help