At Least 23

A properly used reference should
be as sweet as the aroma of Burt Lancaster’s success
feel as soft as a new dresses on the skin of two young admen in New York City
whisper as gently as the quietude of the young sheep
taste like the bitter realization that someone must be talking to you
because you’re the only one here
focus your vision like suddenly seeing Keyser Soze across the room.

An improperly used reference is like
the blessed DJ who constantly
plays music that says nothing to
me about my life.

Referencing deepens the impact when you find out that
both Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles
went blind because of
soap�poisoning.

Some people say that referencing is like revealing
the funny smirk of peace, love and understanding,
but your Captain on the Satellite of Love
thinks this view is not very cromulent.

No, referencing is more comparable to
the moon explaining what to do
to stop feeling blue
when love disappears.
Actually, referencing isn’t anything at all like that.
It’s more comparable to a leashed seether
using a clockwork orange
to defend his rock lobster
against the bloodlust of one of those ravenous koalas.

When I age one year past sixty-three
I will backstroke to Kampuchea and enjoy all the
l’anarchie pour le UK
with my friends Ignatius Reilly, CK Dexter Haven and Opus.

I think I overheard a good reference the other night
when this bloke leaned over to his bird and said,
“Prit-ee creepy flick, rot, but cam-on
nobody’s ever kicked it just from watchin’ a moo-vie.”
Oh really?
I guess he’s not aware of the very creepy fact
that every single adult who attended
the premiere of DW Griffith’s movie valentine to the KKK
is now either dead or dying.
Makes you think, doesn’t it?

Well, I guess there’s really nothing more to say about referencing except this:

Hang the DJ!
Hang the DJ!
Hang the DJ!