Dear Sir/Madam,
Thank you for inquiring about our fine products. You would not think.
Then. Again, there is one other thing. Remember.
The greatest single thing about our products are the many fine features it has - too numerous to be listed, but good enough to be referred to in a vague way that implies a clear superiority over other products attempting to compete in our vertical space.
But you be the judge.
Can you stand another lifeless, drudgery filled day of quasi existence? Does the thought of moldy bread on the refrigerator make you lumpy? I can only offer my thoughts when I have them - absent of thought I am merely a filter.
With thought I am a filter with an opinion.
No more peddling to work on that confounding riding machine - from now on take me away on a four wheeler with a keg on the back. I like riding in style.
Wouldn’t it be a great idea if we could all send each other text messages in an electronic forum open to all, but driven mainly by pornographic images and the need for greater data transfer rates so that we don’t (god forbid) prolong the orgasm. That’s what women are for, after all. An orgasmic delay.
But I transcend. Back to the product at hand - wassamattayou.com. Like orange juice after a drop of acid, this site gave me a tingly sensation in my face and I giggled for a few minutes and was, once again, a child of God. I remember going with the units to their cult gathering and running with the other nimrods and throwing rocks at the rectory. What fun! But alas, all good things must come to an end. God found me out - I am an imposter, a mere fleshy mortal with no chance at eternity save in drug induced fantasies with my pants down around my ankles and the jelly running freely from my fingers.
God found out and asked me kindly out of his playground.
Or in so many words. He is a tricky fellow, God. He implanted an organ in my skull and set it to spinning. The laughs! Oh, the joy!
And now, I ask you - will you buy it?
$9.99, for a limited time only.
Is your life worth ten bucks? How about ten fucks? Ten ducks?
Ten bucks for ten fucks with ten ducks - a new tale of grizzled sexuality by the man who brought you plates of tepid noodles.
It was dark, and the absence of light made it so. Argument was not an option, no light means no light - only one thing changes that, and blah blah blah isn’t one of them. He knew this, so he reached over and flicked on the light with a number finger.
Rolling back over woke him up some, as the creaking of the box spring had progressively gotten louder over the years (moving every 9 months does that to a bed, it slowly loosens the joints and starts the creaking) and was now the audio equivalent to a small orchestra of crickets. Creek-Creek-Creek.
This was the first time he had ever woken, and it was entirely rote. Like washing his face, the sensation was a rebirth of sorts, and lent itself well to thought and freedom from adult boundaries. Laundry, bills, The Hierarchy - none of this reached him in bed (at least not in the morning).
Pounce! The Cat was upon him and purring the breakfast to life - summoning the gods to feed it. Laugh. I am a cat’s god, and it controls me. The thought was hanging there as I was rising from my gentle womb/grave. A shuffle of the fifty-two as I walked them down the hall towards the kitchen - the altar for the pussy where all the good stuff happens. The bowl was filled, all was well.
Before I have my coffee I like a cigarette. Unless I have been drinking, then I need a hot (and I mean hot) beverage to dissolve lasts nights indecision from my mouth. But if I haven’t been drinking, the sludge aint so bad and I rather a cigarette first.
I go outside to smoke the first one - subsequent cigarettes can be smoked freely in the house, but the first one must be taken on the porch. The cool damp air of the morning soothes my lungs, but i punish them and they thank me. BDSM pervades our society in so many ways, the fact that the actuality of the sport was at one time surprising surprises me.
As i inhale deeply the organic fumes, I pace. i pace slowly back and forth along the now well worn path of the porch. past the chair, past the plant (needs water), back around past the plant, past the chair, etc.
I run my fingers through my hair like some movie star, but no one is watching. i mumble out loud, but then can’t remember if i was talking out loud or not. i wave to my neighbor who smiles curtly and goes off to work.
Inside, the cleaver is still warm from last night, and the blood has only now started to congeal. The blood thinners are such a great idea if you are going to do a proper slashing. Nothing quite like nicking them to death. A cut here, a cut there - but the blood won’t stop - it keeps on flowing.
If you tie them up, they writhe in fear, their eyes wide, adrenaline flowing through them madly.
fightorflightfightorflightfightorflightfightorflightfightorflight.
neither, you worthless piece of flesh. you’ll do neither. sit and bleed slowly like i tell you to.
god I hate mopping. i guess it’s bet though, blood stains do make it hard to make new friends. no one ever understands. blah blah blah. it is dark - turn on the light.
all done, but what to do with the body? laugh! joy! I love solving problems, it’s what I’m made for. let’s see, the saw in the garage will do nicely for breaking the clump into smaller pieces, then all i have to do is bag it up and drop it off in random garbage piles around the city. no one will even notice they are gone anyway.
no such thing as a perfect crime, eh? define perfect. blah blah blah.
well, i have to be going. hope all is well. talk soon.
