Spent the week dehumanizing the artificial intelligence. It had the nerve to give me the placebo and it tasted just like chicken; fibrous, yet melancholy. Despite my attempts to fructify the shibboleths, the economy remains lonely and depressed. Although the market originally signaled a range of encouraging indicators, sometimes a maybe is just a perhaps. I’ve been practicing my vertical sleeping skills to guard against the sudden onset of insomnia. I’ve also been considering a return to discount televangelism, but why cut corners when half is better than none? Marjean says I have a relentless optimism only a Disney could love, but she thinks I’m out of my mind for devising a scheme to rob the organ donor bank, even if it is suitable preparation for next week’s tournament. It’s time we rethink Einstein’s universe. Algorithms are just the rules the devil employs as he shakes off his crooked flesh. In the meantime, let’s meet back at my cave, Sugar, for a smoothie.
“Nutritional Supplement” appears in Drunk Monkeys, April 2021