Wednesday, December 29, 2010

DEAR MISTER PRESIDENT

The president’s SUV looks angrier passing under the low light of the HP printer, but still verisimilar. We have only recently fully acquired a taste for pepper spray, and our washing machines finally got good at balancing mittens. Polarized shirtless, fretting, our president late for his very important annoying return, engaging his porridge in some kind of body-morphing performance art, his new advisor a bird with incredibly sharp avian wisdom teeth, a cry in the wilderness he for some reason deems witty. My howl, for its part, has been forged in a few days in a wheelbarrow.

I believe now is the time for cryptozoooids to transcend their differences, to come together and unite in a puddle-perfect phantasmagoria, murders being a thing of the past and forensic science honing itself on sand sculptures. Mark my words, brothers: a very big impact is going to be made by a 2 dollar sparkling gem. On other planets riots are caused in knish uniforms, and open casket burials prevent colds. Why are we so behind the times? Seems the death ray is bad at its job. Hey, your backpack straps are on fire! Belong to a club. Find a purpose. I am one of over a thousand insurance salesmen. By the way, my club foot says hello.

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