Like a shivery swimmer in a spangled Speedo not so long ago-go, Claire moseyed in the posies on a mission for fission, hoping and groping to deploy a plowboy wow boy. When it was all over but the do-over, there were burdocks in her hamhocks and hayseeds in her misdeeds, but lo and behold-me-squeeze-me when at ten a-hem a.m. the morning glory after she awoke askew in the dew, the farmer who disarmed her was choring-not-snoring, and when then Claire rear-viewed his snappy backstraps, she pitchforked her loft for the hayloft, chucked chic chic for chicken chic, popped for a Johnny Popper, and went all goose for her back-to-the-lander gander. For like tall nuns doing slow-motion yoga a good long stretch, life has been all galosh and B’Gosh, furrow and burrow, harvest mooning and June-spooning and seeding without receding.
But sans rebut, this mourning morning Claire is back-forty weep-snorty, honey bee cause lacking booster in his rooster, her handyman husbandman has tendered surrender and sold the farmette, bringing the alt-gestalt to a halt. Corn shocked, Claire was like a prior-not-friar peeled unhappy apple pre-pared to fell in the well until with a thrill her rural freak delivery mailmanly brung and slung the B-52s Funplex over the handsome transom.
Like glitter in the granola, it flipped her like a makeup pancake from churlish to girlish. “Pump” is ecstatic pneumatic. “Ultraviolet” is Claire’s radial entire nonsensibility render-blendered via hi-ya psychedelia echolalia. Through like a windowed Koosh ball out, this thumpy-thump hand-clappy fuzzy-buzzy no-hum album is straight-up wow-meows like a not-Wurlitzer organ donor delivered with enough never-enough spankety-skank to unrut Claire’s strutty-strut. Fred Schneider is pinkity-slinkity double-aught-naughty and makes Claire feel like Pop Rocks and a twelve-pack of Tab. She intenders bye-and-bi to whisk him like an egg over easy to be her agrico-gigolo.
Like corn-squeezin’s still, Claire is tarty in her smarty but never in her hearty. After the last Tab is stabbed, she will for one weensy-momento like last testaments lament her caponed country caper and run all hula-lunar from the whoopee coop across not angry the yield-fields where the wild oats blow, dressed in Fred’s stripe-hyped pantaloonys, singing “Juliet Of The Spirits” on the heath beneath the heavenly far-stars, sequins on a universe where nothing ever ends…
