I had often wondered what it would be like to get back in that eggshell and finally set to the task of folding those meat envelopes I had developed that one summer along the Rhine. Oh, those were days my sweaty kneecaps would nearly blister from the chemical burn of tough love. I often find it kind of people when they give me their change, but I imagine the horrible things I would do to their automotive upholstery anyway. They can't help it if I have a mind for beer-battered knickers (a delicious, devilish delight). I just chalk it all up to about four meters. I read a magazine once -- really read it --, but found it boring, so now I simply listen to my hoover. Mister Bissel has been awfully quiet since they cut the power off. So much for squatting. Next time I'll just crap standing up. All of this, of course, leads me to the obvious postmodern existential neoconstructivist anger that Deleee... Deleee... D-D-D-Deleee... what's-his-name was secretly exploring in his recent piece on Aural Dissonances in the Common Industrialist Marketplace, where he wrote -- as one can plainly see above --
Delegaattori wrote:YAYAYAYAYAYAYYYYYYYA!
This, of course, would leave one to believe that folding meat envelopes could be construed as a waste of time. To those detractors I would simply say, "Hark! Thou hast not the knuckles for such great tomfoolery! Dost thou not know what sort of tasty meat such envelopes are harvested from whence?" Let not the bastards keep us from our work.
I digress. Sometimes, anyway.
I strongly believe it's time to take the gloves off and finally let the dogs out. Dogs shouldn't be wearing gloves anyway. Who's stupid idea was that? Mittens would be more appropriate, especially since they've all been shaved with the straight razor and made to huddle in the meat locker like so many whimpering chihuahuas. Little bastards.
Would somebody get the phone? I think it's Jesus again.
Really, the point of all this is that being warm, caring people won't save us from our flaws. We'll still end up drooling on our shirts whilst we struggle to bite our own ears. Try it now and you'll see what I mean. But don't let it get you down, kids. Remember: there's a dark, claustrophobic little padded box six feet under the cold, wet, heavy soil waiting for you at the end of it all, and that should put a smile on anybody's face.
Now STOP LOOKING AT ME!