What is a Grease Bomb? And what happens when it's away? Back in the daze, Los Bozotros started writing collaborative short stories, often recording them complete with theme music and sound effects. The construction of each "Grease Bombs Away" was loosely based on the Zurich Dadaists' Exquisite Corpse; the participants— in the Los Bozotros method— would write a word, phrase, or sentence on a sheet of paper, then pass it on to the next person who would write a word, phrase, or sentence, and so on until a tridiculous masterwork was created.

A Circus Of Clatters
by Tim Noe & Don Trubey  © 1982

Many opt for the wide way, but some butt their brains into Truth's flacid lawnmower. Toes slipping on the twirled tongue. Keith, for actual instance, creates in fluted passages a stumping thump trill. Tom, au contraire, loops ten tufts into cragged laughy trick tracks. Modes of hose on two left feets make angled ankles indicate polar bearings bald. Perpetual repetition shuffling leads to diced images bunched together on a letter.

The letter reads: "Tom. Had enough. Dropped back, squatted and made bun prints to expel impressions of anal insecurity. Realigned, designed frontier facade. Repeated process until unhinged. The resultant archway made a dandy sofa bed, and I'm sure the kids will just love it. Your bat at man, Keith." This missive seared Tom's skullcase. He motivated toward the left and sheared sheep as an act of inspiration. Blood ran 'round his pole, and the whole town flocked to see the short end of the stick, inscribed thusly: "Lip Service Air Den— Trims and Rims."

Oral plugs became a necessity in the parking lots to nip the pleasure buzz. The Pope dropped in regularly to insert the devices. Unfortunately, His Holiness neglected self-installation, and the papal tongue was ripped out by the roots. Then, slipping from sinless celibacy, he could not resist a ream on Carnata's request. He had the offending appendage replaced with an ivory clapper and joined a Latin polka band as a castanetist. Vodka finished the job. His clattering style became classic, and soon a craze developed. Millions, all over the planet, gave up dreaming and creaming, so they too could clack out continually haunting holy rhythms and partake of the purity of the potato wine rituals. Piles of discarded tongue could be spotted on the playgrounds of many Catholic schools where this fad took a particularly firm hold amongst earnest juveniles.

Falling into the immediate environment and out into the other areas, the lip life and air dives. Crawling forth, eaten or consumed, impeccable, envisioning owl injections. The ultranight, paved eyes and striped knife. And out of it all, steps teeming Tom, tight-wristed and taut with tease. A white-hot brew steams off his ears as he smears the stew over the rigid rubber ribs of The Machine. Chance undergrowth sustains his prospects. Zig-zag ruts his parlor, stacked with rustpins, shattered keyboards and a smooth rex, shellacked on a daily basis. Colored streams of sky dirt settle into tucks. Moist folds of fevered atmosphere tugged this wobbling Tom. He knows the meaning of truancy. He thinks this mess: a circus of clatters.

This is the life Tom'd been sitting on since birth as his future'd been decreed in his daddy's potent seed. Little Tommy died ten times in the rubber room before he met his mom. But persistance gave him breath and a big head start to finish. His cold, analytic behind smelled of wedge. He fit in well at the orifice, in his lamb suit and tie-dyed underworms. Keith's burley wifette, Carnata, even complimented Tom on his fear of flowers and their useless kin. His books, especially "Aesthetic Apathy: A Path To Carefree Anesthesia," became popular among awakened apes of all ages. He was invited to numb sets, always escorted by a fresh young tongue or two, to lap sap and slap language slats. Keith, envious of his cohort's budding celebrity slant, sent Carnata to trick him into a dangerous game of food swapping as Carnata readied the very jello that was to undo Tom's trail to the top of the pop poop heap.

Keith carved Tom's would-be fatal invitation into a glistening new side of beef. Tom was pleased with this opportunity to imprint his old friends with the miracle of his fetid teachings and thanked Carnata so profusely that she nearly reeked out the secret of what was to become of unsuspecting Tom. But the couple's childish scheme became violently apparent when Tom inspected Carnata's stool and found traces of psychoses. However, Tom had grown so puffy with pride that he arrogantly assumed he could straighten out Carnata's poop with a little carefully constituted cosmic condescention. He accepted the invite and prepared a sermonette for the occasion.

When the evening arrived, so did Tom. Keith played the spacious host, and Carnata wore her special cardboard duds especially. Keith was about to serve the horrible jello when Tom, waxing wordy, launched into a garish diatribe concerning proper pooping procedure. Needless to say, Keith and Carnata were sorely insulted for they had both studied with expert assholes and esteemed themselves to be veritable shit scholars. But Tom insisted they be deeply moved. And, in the end, the hosts grudgingly participated in the crap session. But when Tom pushed his point past the pair's retention span, expounding endlessly and with increasing vanity, Carnata was fixated with fury and spat out, "Anus is anus! Let's eat to the beat!" She then unveiled her meat metronome and set it in motion. Tom, however, considered this interuption such an abdominable affront that he declared icily, "I cannot indulge in this bonehead backsliding into the banalisms of your little colon cult! I am afraid that I have to go now!"

And indeed he did. Exuding a ruttish scent of piss and vinegrette, Tom paraded lordly into the labyrinthine loo. Instantly, the room twisted and exploded, and Tom collapsed in a stupid roar. He cowered a bit, then dragged his self to the porcelain pit, entertaining insanity. Then he saw clearly that the toilet zone was a kaleidoscopic complex of fire bulbs, obscenic lookouts, and sacrifecal lamb chops on steely meat hooks... and not an halucination. His terror became revulsion, and he blasted, "So this is your Temple of Shit!" A foul odor insinuated its sleazy self into his flared pants. And the degrading, but fascinating, reality of his sensory situation splattered Tom like a ton of taco dip. He was farting uncontrollably, unpreventably and unbelievably! He cursed the sphincter god, and immediately the supreme fart force intensified his rectal belch a thousandfold! At that moment, Tom careened through the ceiling, attaining eternal life. His earthly body was left dripping from the rafters as his majestic digestive tract jetted gloriously into the upper atmospheres. He was soon out of the grasp of Earth's dull gravity— to blessed Uranus— where he was excused of all the wasteful sins of his life... and to this day... sits... shits... and shines his empty shoes.