A sort of bad day at the office. Diseases show their real feathers in meetings when the board members all have zombie immune systems. The venality that shoots up like a Zippo’s flame: I’ve been in a Zippo-induced trance before, it’s quite a treat – but this was nothing like that. There is nothing uglier and more revealing than a Malaria parasite trying to put its best foot forward. You want to fucking kill it, I swear. I was in the broom closet with an attractive woman and told her in a warm, smelly voice: ‘Let’s take our time with this quickie. Let’s do the quickie very long.’ Our energies should be guided towards that idyllic clusterdrain of the company’s collective crotch, to form a magnificent and artistic starfish squirt. I once tried to describe to a colleague the beauty when the peyote rug in the boardroom ties up the waving filaments of its monopoly on our minds. I had failed to include even the most basic details in my description.
A good day at the little fish pond in front of the porch of my lovely Gregorian home. ‘The world is too obsessed with struggling,’ I murmured to myself, taking aim with my rifle. I have applied for and have non-surprisingly been granted a license to shoot the shit out of Koi. Just apply for a government license to massacre cucumbers if greenhouse electro music so bothers you. Tomorrow we’ll all wake in our beds to the sounds of different alarms. Everybody goes to sleep – and in a sense awakes – alone. A Swiss Made biological clock is less likely to be misleading and to yank you out of sleep at three in the morning for no good reason other than that it thinks you should get up. The breathtaking pranks time plays on our glands and nodes. A million babies is killed in Denmark on any given morning at exactly 5a.m.; and yet the abortion forecaster on television gets it wrong every time. I hate his smug look and his tailored suit. I hate his little fu manchu mustache.
A large mysterious parcel arrived at my office today. ‘Opening this thing without the help of Molly would be devastating,’ I sighed tragically. I know this stripper who also doubles as a package opener. She has somehow segued her art with the far more practical utility of opening parcels. Each item of clothing she removes corresponds with a piece of the package being stripped off. It requires immense focus. Her business card reads: ‘Molly, professional strip art package opener. I can be yours for only $5 an hour.’ Due to pathetic and keening dependence on her services there is not a single letter opener at the company. Our hands have gotten soft and pale and sickly. We squeak at the merest paper cut. ‘I can also remove boils and cysts and stubborn obnoxious pimples. My grandmother had once been impacted in my grandfather’s armpit so deeply, only magnetic resonance imaging could espy her. I removed her no sweat.’ She’s a sweet girl.
The box contained rolls of densely packed karate headbands.
hahaha!
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