Me: And there it is.  Finished.  Damn, that was intense.  Take a cigarette and wrap it in a towel, soak it in gin. Take it out and bury it in the desert for four days.  Then after that time period, take it out and unwrap the towel, take out the cigarette, break it apart.  Throw away the filter.  Take the tobacco and fry it with some garlic and onions.  When the garlic turns translucent, take off the heat, pile everything in the skillet into the center, and then put an anvil on top of it.  Let it sit for about two hours then take the onion/garlic/tobacco puck and put it in the freezer and after 5.2223 hours take it out, put some vanilla ice cream on top, and then give it to me.  I will put it in my pants, on my ass, and then I will sit down on a large tortoise.  And I want you to paint me goldenrod.  Once the paint dries, I will stand up and proclaim that I invented Salisbury Steak, and begin singing “Emotion”.  Once I reach the last verse, on the second line, fourth word, hose me down with Tang, screaming, “THY WILL IS THE GLORY OF PHLEGM. HAIL MIGHTY GROUND-DIRT, FOR IT BECOMETH THE HERALD OF ZEEK THE CLAM-RIDDEN.”  And I will respond, “FORSOOTH, I BESTOOK YOU FOR A SHED!” And then I’ll be good.

Timeformorecake: Holy moley..

Me: I’m discovering that being absurd is half intellect and half Zen Buddhism. The bigger your vocabulary and the more trivial the knowledge, the better.  But then you also got to shut off your brain and just run with it. It’s very odd. Humans – the delicate spacecow.

You got something to say? Go ahead, I dare ya . . .

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