Keith Konsciousness

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The Cowgirls splashed, laughing in the river; their bodies naked and wet glistening. Others had spilled onto the green grass and were rolling around clapping their hands and singing. All of a sudden they fell silent. Standing at the top of the hill, leaning against a tree was Lord Keith. One of the Cowgirls whispered into her friend’s ear, “His blue skin makes my honey flow so thick and syrupy that my thighs are stuck together. He’s so dreamy!”

A fellow Cowgirl smiles and rubs her friend’s honey all over her hard nipples as another slides her finger into her sticky honey jar. Soon all the Cowgirls are dancing and gyrating in the noonday sun. Lord Keith watches with his cowboy hat over his eyes as if he doesn’t notice. But he notices. His thick donkey dick starts to bead pre-cum which the Cowgirls can see leaking through his blue chaps.

As he walks down from the hill, he pulls out his blue guitar and starts playing a melody which causes the the Cowgirls to start slipping because the grass is so slick with their dripping honey. Lord Keith smiles as the Cowgirls wave back and forth with their arms in the air. He sings out, “Who wants to play my magic flute? It makes the most beautiful sound.”

And with that he unzips his denim dungarees and pulls out his thick, pulsating flute. The Cowgirls hungrily lick their sticky honey lips. Lord Keith just smiles and starts saying, “Hey, batter batter batter batter. Hey, batter batter.”

This confuses some of the the Cowgirls. But not all of them. And soon Lord Keith understands the meaning of “Jesus rode a donkey into Bethlehem”…bareback.

Lord Keith shook his beautiful brown shag hair-do and everyone started to play his flute. As their joyous screams filled the air, soon it became a song and all the honey turned to flowers. Then for the next three years, Lord Keith autographed every flower the Cowgirls brought him.

He was eventually rushed in a bread truck to a small ashram without any running water or food and left there all alone. Shivering, Lord Keith sat on the floor in a corner waiting for the sun to come up hoping that the proprietor of this ashram at least had decent room service.

Meditative Pft! poster by Whale Song Partridge

Hindu fan fiction by His Holiness Guru Shaun

Peariscope

When you look through the peariscope of Shirley, all opposites melt away and soon you will see a wonderful Land of Enchantment and a young goddess with long, brown hair parted in the middle eating a pear so perfect and juicy…wouldn’t you like to take a bite?

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Starring Laurie Partridge as Herself

And Introducing The Pear Doesn’t Fall Far From the Pear Tree

Produced by Whale Song Partridge and Other Delights 1972

C’Mob Get Happy!

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FBI: How long have you been a member of The Partridge Family Temple?
Pft!: Me? I already told you. The Partridge Family Temple doesn’t exist. It’s a figment of your imagination.
FBI: What about The All is Flowing Family of God?
Pft!: Like I said. Doesn’t exist. Partridge Family Temple, All is Flowing Family of God…you’re barking up the wrong chestnut tree.
FBI: We’ve done wire taps. We’ve listened to the phone calls. We’ve seen the propaganda that Whale Song Partridge designs. You’re saying that’s a figment of our imagination?
Pft!: With all due respect, maybe you wire-tapped a Brown Goblin cave.
FBI: Very funny. Now that you’ve brought it up, let’s talk about Brown Goblins.
Pft!: I’d rather not.
FBI: Why not?
Pft!: Because it’s not fun talking about uptight squares. After all, I’m already talking to one.
FBI: You’re just making this hard on yourself. You can take your jabs, your cheap shots…but we know The All is Flowing Family of God branch of The Partridge Family Temple does exist and is trying to spread the Gospel of TV God Power.
Pft!: TV God Power? Hey, I like TV like anyone else but now I’m wondering if you’re a figment of my imagination. Maybe you’re a Brown Goblin.
FBI: Maybe you’re a Brown Goblin.
Pft!: Oh, I know I’m a Brown Goblin. Everyone you meet is a Brown Goblin. But that’s the thing. How long you gonna be a Brown Goblin?
FBI: What to you mean? How long are you going to be a Brown Goblin? You messing with us?
Pft!: Nah. I have nothing to do with your figment of your imagination. That’s all you. I wish I could help. I’m a very helpful person.
FBI: We know you exist. We’ve been wire-tapping you since the Summer of 1988 and we have quite the dossier. We’re going to put the screws to you. Shut your whole God-Freak trip down.
Pft!: Go ahead! Like to see you shut down something that doesn’t exist.
FBI: I’ll let you listen to a wire tap we recorded a few years ago by someone with the code name Tony the Tiger. Apparently he was obsessed with Kellogg’s cereal which to be honest with you seems a little strange.
(recording) “This is gonna sound stupid, but I saw at one point that our mothers are… bus drivers. No, they are the bus. See, they’re the vehicle that gets us here. They drop us off and go on their way. They continue on their journey. And the problem is that we keep tryin’ to get back on the bus, instead of just lettin’ it go.”
FBI: What does that mean? I can’t get it out of my mind. I don’t know if it’s gibberish or…
Pft!: Oh, he’s talking about Shirley Partridge! She’s the Great Mother who we all serve. We’d all take a bullet in the back of the head for her. In fact, she has a bullet for all of us with our names on it and we look forward to taking that bullet ‘cause we don’t fear death anymore. ‘Cause death is just another way of saying “good morning” as you grab the newspaper and drink your cup of coffee.
FBI: So I have you on record saying The Partridge Family Temple is in fact a real organization?
Pft!: Of course. This far-out thing of ours has always existed and will always exist. But some people will never get their button.
FBI: What does that mean?
Pft!: Hey! I’m thirsty. What’s it take to get a 7-Up in here?
Evidence: Whale Song Partridge
Transcript: The Partridge in the Pear Tree

M’Laurie

Seventeen times the charm of chapel chimes,
great glistening seas of coiling serpents
Bacchus dance in hissing waves
disturbed by her cream-soft foot in silver sandal
gliding the folksong gentleness
of television-morning and evening-gown-evening,
her harpsichord key unlocks the mystery of
The Emerald Ages when all hair was fair and
she – high priestess – whispered wise counsel to the
King of Seven Colours casting feathering
Christmaslight across stony hillsides of
youthful Autumn.

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Pft! poem by Seven Up Partridge

Pft! illustration to read poem by Whale Song Partridge