.. "I used to worry about Newt. Then I started worrying about the fact that the sun stopped producing neutrinos in the early '80s, indicating that its internal fusion process had stopped. But that was too scary, so now I worry about fashion."
****
the seripis
Last night a telemarketer called up the local and
started trying to sell me new roofing. If I was one of
the lucky chosen first 25 customers. She sounded
depressed. I asked her how she was feeling and she
kept reading the script. I asked her how she was
feeling again and this time I gave it a roofing tinge.
"Is the rain starting to pressure your vortex of E?.”
Still no bite. I was intent on getting my swerve on
last night so I asked her if this is what she thought
it would be like. She told me she hadn’t thought about
it yet, as she was only 15. Her words washed over my
thoughts like pixie dust and I asked her if she’s ever
been to the roof. She went on and on about her ex
boyfriend and how he is breaking her heart nightly.
Toucan Sam. What kind of fucking name is that?
Anyways, so she is going on and on about toucan Sam
and this is where the story gets fucked up. I have
never really had even a second hand encounter with
bestiality. So imagine my surprise when this
telemarketer starts telling me that this "Toucan Sam"
is actually an animated tropical bird who follows the
scent of some fucking breakfast cereal from South
America to the breakfast table in Gary, IN. and this
Sam was not good to her. I could give you specifics
but it might be incriminating and process is the least
of my desires right now. In fact I believe I’ve lost
all my desires. Last night I was told what passion can
do and it scares me. So let me finish. She’s basically
crying to me like I was her gay brother or something
and once in a while her supervisor would walk by at
which point she would snap right back into the
routine. By the third time she faux-snickered to the
manager "tuff sell". We carried on for 17 minutes
(according to my digital display) and I realized that
I was no longer curious, that I had heard enough. I
lied to her; told her I smoked. Then I lied again;
told her I was going to go meet my probation officer
for a smoke. She asked if I was checking in and I lied
again! I tell you this to communicate the trauma. I
tell her that, well, actually he used to be my
probation officer but we just ended up friends. I told
her I could give her some details and after I released
three she said "like Diane?" and I was getting all
flustered so I took to the custom made terminate
button on my wireless.
Hanging up the phone, I noticed that the John Hughes
movie I had been watching had gotten to the moral
already. I tried to justify it by thinking I had
learnt something else that night. Along the lines of
/young girls like tropical birds/ but it just didn’t
seem as timeless. I imagined trying to tell my friend
Jim Sandlak about it but was repelled by visions of
"house" brushing me away for my lack. He never said of
what. LACK LACK LACK.
Fucking house gets drafted in
the first round and thinks he's hot shit. He’s not hot
shit. I have my world. Sure I don't get to shave Brett
Hull's hairy back but I did get the setlist from the
last Eric’s Trip concert. Of course don't ask Julie
about it... she was so pissed at me she threatened to
"make a bile refuse out of my esophagus".
Science
geeks
are all
the same.
The end of the peel...
... you call that a beach?
