Tuesday, December 7, 2010

SMALL ROCK SICK

‘Thank you, stage magician.’ ‘You’re welcome, airborne gift in sputnik wrapping paper.’ Kill me now Plutooooooo! Ooh my feet are cold, and my toes multiply, in your epidemic atelier! I cannot work in this place! Jail Declares Loss even though I’m merely hanging here – from your ceiling, waving – not small, not a rock, not sick. How else did I survive while everyone else was massaging their scalps with typhoid hair gel? Abstinence. Infamously known as the hypnotic condom. How come I’m such a good actor? Wiccan cat puke – that unearthly extension of Old Tricks. Bambi written in very depressing code. With in-depth knowledge of deer, bafflement came to us. Here’s my advice to the PR team of anyone caught fighting an Oscar trophy – don’t drown yourself in a punch bowl. It’s embarrassing, and such antics on the office carpet can ruin your career, but be more afraid of the bowl’s candid deep zoom. ‘I tried to save them,’ were his last words. Words better protected than embarrassment. Memorable events of the pallbearers preserved on YouTube; depraved CEOs use these clips as lessons in elitism. ‘Where have you been my whole life?’ ‘Excited by Pol Pot.’ ‘That far?’ Of illusion counterclockwise on my coffee.

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