Speaking of foreclosures, I’m sick and tired of all these damn bugs. At least it’s eel season and I feel slippery as a skinny snake charmer on a fat-free diet. Of course, everything sticks to flypaper, if you know how to install it right. Especially if you’re vivacious. Normally, this time of year, I’d be practicing the fine art of serial leisure, but last night, Wyonna called while I was eating some hypnotic strawberries, and before I could snap myself out of it, she asked whether all the vacant planets in the Milky Way had been quantified yet? That’s got to be a lot of unclaimed real estate, she ventured. I’m a stunt-oriented artist, so I told her that thanks to special relativity, it doesn’t matter when you start, it’s never too late to take the placebo. Darn it, Robespierre, she shouted, it’s not like I want to be executed. I added that we’re all just would-be homo sapiens trying to get by without standing out—you know, like pill bugs rolled up at a pharmaceutical convention—and that if she knew what was good for her, she’d keep her head down and her hopes up, at least until this infernal solar storm passed and the infrared lights came back on. Speak of the devil! she exclaimed, and hung up.
I prefer the peace and quiet of a warm, cozy, house with a fireplace, and a big dog roasting on a spit. Why be yourself when you can be someone else? Athletics isn’t just for athletes, you know, especially now that everybody is their own webpage. You can succeed in the real world, or the other one, if need be. Of course, there’s nothing worse than a ten-headed snake, but it depends on how you define intelligence. Just as long as it’s dark and busy.
Yesterday, I was strolling past some anesthetized lawns, like the ones in the rich-people movies. Just by using my brain waves I could tell that the houses were filled with ironclad husbands and UFO-adjacent children. The horse stables were neat as a pin cushion.
Thanks to science, it’s a whole new world out there, so I’m certain we’re all going to get our day in court. Be sure to bring a blunt object of your choice. And don’t forget your tenterhooks. It’ll be like a block party. The flames are sure to cooperate, and the combustible furniture, although life-like while burning, won’t feel a thing.
This flock of wild weather is exciting, isn’t it? I’d say it’s time to get our rubber ducklings in a row. Egg-yolk yellow is my favorite color, although I can’t help but notice the monochromatic technique of this chromium rain, the cruel direction of its fanatical electricity. Lightning certainly is lightning-quick, particularly in a disheveled squall. Before going any further, it’s worth considering the carpenter ants, those revelers. Even in a downpour they seem as happy as snakes on ladders to bring their own tools. I’m not sure if that’s a heads-up or a shot over the bough, but there’s no use in weeping into our lachrymose soup. I, for one, am going to blow air kisses into the oncoming Nor’easter, and hope for the best. Sure, we’re going to take a pummeling, but with even a little luck, we’ll be luckier than that chicken man they blew up in Philly last night. Did you see his beak? Even a botched nose job like that deserves a funeral more dignified than that cosmetic foul. Better yet, next time, let’s leave the murder to the crows.
