Rise And Fall Of Pierce Monae

This is the tired account of how Pierce Monae, a bioengineer, tossed
pea bombs at ninja waiters in theme diners.

I said that the account was tired but I didn’t warn about how
it would instantly become quite lugubrious when it detailed Pierce
using bird turd iPhone apps to crap on correspondences he didn’t like.

In the account, we experience a little hiccup of sprightliness – at the point
where the bioengineer places 3-D laser-sintered snotballs
on his girlfriends’ headboards. Oh! God knows we could use the levity.

We will see the man literally transform, and the first hints appear,
strangely, when he surgically attaches bioplastic breastplates
that protect him against the detrimental faux pas of gargling sugar-laced
bacterial mouthwash too loud in the bathrooms of geoengineering
facilities – a testimony, if ever there was one, to the character-molding
influences of friends.

Flippantly, and in a sense mockingly – for every kind act in Pierce’s
skimpy repertory of kind acts carries a faint whiff of mockery, of
condescension – Pierce stars in the account as a man who’d ‘benevolently’
deign to necromancing his neighbor’s hamster out of a
chaos of wet sloppy noodles on the mantelpiece. Ptuh!

Of course the account has so far been nothing but tired, even during
the exciting moments. Even when our subject swills beer containing
nanotechnology that washes his ass and scrubs his armpits and combs
his hair and sweetens his breath – and we can feel ourselves begin
to yawn rudely (if you’re reading/hearing this in the company of
colleagues or loved ones) when Pierce, at night, before bed,
drapes himself in a large mountain insulator, the very same cowl of
mirroring Doritos Tibetans have recently begun to find useful in hiding
crops, llamas and ancient crowdsourcing techniques from the Chinese.

Here, now, is Pierce at his vainest: yawn-inducingly, the account has
Pierce molding his name (i.e. Pierce Monae) in silicon letters
based on Palatino serif, and some of you may next fall into a deep stupor
when he publishes an epic poem about his internal organs
‘plateauing’ in a fashion horribly literal and unaesthetic.

Can there be a distinction between his organs making art and
their acting up in medical terms horribly technical?

Doesn’t matter. This is all such boring shit, I don’t believe any
of you would even be around to witness Pierce marking his own downfall
by stuffing electrodes into his pierced, perforated belly (weird pun here
which the account lazily – tiredly? – fails to account for) in an attempt
to remedy the situation but in consequence turning into a baked potato.