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He is truly awful
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It took me 5 minutes or more.

Submitted by monkeyswithguns at 2008-04-04 16:22:21 EDT
Rating: 1.95 on 13 ratings (13 reviews) (Review this item) (V)

So I'm sitting here, and the clock is running at 3:53 pm, and I'm going to write until, hmm, lets see, 3:58 pm, which is great as a time-marker, because that means it's almost 4, and I can leave an hour afterwards.

As far as what I'll do with the time, I have yet to work out, so let's do this here shall we?
I COULD do some work, but I'll more than likely go out to the car, and pull out the plastic bags containing things people have mailed to me since I started doing my random weirdness projects. After I got back from my vacation, I had a PO Box full of great stuff, most of which I haven't yet had the chance to reply to.

There's the guy from Italy, that spent 20 Euros to send me a Friskies cat food box, filled with all sorts of treasures. There's a wooden pen in the form of a rooster, a tuning fork, a kinder-egg toy, some tide maps for some city in California, some stickers, and 2 patches for some Italian organization, one of which I believe may be a fire department of some sort, though I could be wrong.

Some hippie chick from New Mexico that sent me a silver necklace, and another necklace with a shark-tooth, along with an advertisement for her friend's books for sale, none of which I'll be buying.

Some guy from Portland that sent me 2 cd's. One of his own band, I think the name is "Everyone Fled and the City was Ours", and one from some jam band that he claimed was cool. I'd say it was cool if you like the type of music that sounds like random noises with no rythym, purpose, or harmony. Like the hellish sound vibrations you'd hear out of some pretentious college town, and some greasy headed muppet trying to tell me it's "art" and what the fuck do I know about it? I know it's crap, and I know you're full of crap, that's what the fuck I know about it.

Then I'm pulling out my steak knife and dragging him by the dreads around the corner of the shitty apartment building he's living in, and while my foot is on his throat so that he can't scream, and he's trying to kick me but he can't, I'm sawing through his hand meat, because it happened to flail to closely to my own, and I didn't want to take it this far, but I can't very well stop now because that would leave a witness, and everyone knows the rules on that subject.

I stop with the hand because it's ineffective for my purposes and I've lost interest in the cartilage between the knuckles, so I decide to move on to targets of substance and opportunity, and opportunities are arising now, because he's crying about his hand, and something about having a heart, and I say "Yeah, you do for the moment."

As I drive the plastic based instrument of the culinary arts into the area just above his belt, I'm reminded of a story about 3 eskimos sitting in an igloo, and one stands up to peek out of the smoke hole to see if the weather is calming, and while he's standing, one of his friends sees his stomach, and remarks "That belly looks good enough to cut open" and so he proceeds to gut his friend in the way that only an Inuit of the late 18th century could do, and whoever told me that story said it had something to do with the savage within us all.

I like my savageness, because now I'm tearing away at the opening in his lower torso, having abandoned my knife for favor of my hands, because the guts feel so squishy in my hands, and I just want to play with them, like one might pop bubble wrap, just for the senseless joy that comes from the act. There's no screaming now, and that's a good thing, because I wouldn't want to wake anyone up, but I don't think it matters, because it's 3:00 am, and the only people up at this hour are junkies and drunks, and they're all yelling along with us for reasons that we only know personally.

I begin to taste a piece of liver that got stuck on the fingernail of my left-hand pinky, a nail I had meant to trim along with the others last night, but I gave up on, as it was too close to the quick, and hurt like hell. I should say I had started to taste a piece of liver, for the reasoning that it might contain some adrenaline, and mine's wearing off now, but I stopped mid lick and spit it out, revolted at my actions. Who eats their own kind?

Suddenly, I remember that I'm at work, and none of that ever happened, and it's now 4:21, and I've written this in between phone calls and showing pictures of my Spanish trip to co-workers, and I think I'm going to stop writing right........now.


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Submitted by woolfe at 2008-04-07 10:25:27 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

5 minutes eh?

Submitted by beeltea at 2008-04-07 04:21:27 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

give me your mailing address; I'll send you some sweet shit.

Submitted by kaos-king at 2008-04-06 20:54:50 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

Submitted by Ducky at 2008-04-06 20:17:21 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

My last post was an attempt with the 5 minute thing, which I have tried in the past, and am completely incapable of.

Submitted by loan_officer at 2008-04-05 01:46:09 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

Submitted by TheUniter at 2008-04-04 20:39:31 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

.

Submitted by TheUniter at 2008-04-04 20:39:20 EDT (#)
Rating: 1


Submitted by Sacrilicious at 2008-04-04 19:06:45 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

So who else knows about your PO Box? I thought it was just an ubery thing. You told the WHOLE INTARWEBZ?

I have something for you, I swear. I just can't ever seem to get to the post office while it's you know, open.

Submitted by orphelia at 2008-04-04 18:43:01 EDT (#)
Rating: 2


Deserves waay more attention.

Submitted by ilikesteak at 2008-04-04 17:34:46 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

I should get one of those boxy things.

Submitted by corn nugget at 2008-04-04 17:24:40 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

Submitted by lostnphound at 2008-04-04 16:42:32 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

Submitted by haikumikoo at 2008-04-04 16:42:15 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

Another classic.

Also, I hope whoever sent you the awful jam band mix reads this and feels bad about themselves.


Marge: Homie, are you really going to ignore Grampa for the rest of
your life?

Homer: Of course not, Marge, just for the rest of his life.

Grampa vs. Sexual Inadequacy