So it should be obvious at this point that Christy is, in fact, inside my cubicle. If you did not understand that portion of the last post, please go Directly To Jail, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200 (ya poor bastard...).
The story is thusly: Christy had an appointment to get her hair done this morning. This appointment was not in fact in the Sacramento area, but somewhere in the vague approximation of Berkeley. Exactly where I do not know, but then again I do not know exactly where most things are. My brain, for a prime example. Or my soul. (Say the bottom of my shoe and you're fucking fired, get it?) So since she needed to have this hair appointment during The Mythical Hours (I tell you, I have no real proof that time exists between, say, 7 a.m. and 9 a.m... I've been up UNTIL 7 a.m., and I've gotten up just after 9 a.m., but those two hours? They don't really exist...) and since it's a two hour drive from Sac and only about a 45 minute drive from my place, she drove down last night and crashed on my couch (which she, reading over my shoulder, says to say was "comfortable") after having a drinking bout with Joe, Lara, Joe's friends Ian and Patrick, as well as Marx. Marx, of course, drank EVERYONE under the table... (Never fuck with an alcoholic cat... he can and will prove you are weak...)
After her hair appointment, she spent several hours attempting to find Maxis. The tour guide who put the blindfold over her eyes assured her that the Fatwah of Death only applied if she saw how to actually get TO the studio. So he then got in a car, did doughnuts for two hours, then took her out of the car in exactly the same spot they started and walked her to the office. NOTE: None of this actually happened. If you believe me, you are a fool and a gentleman. Even if you're a lady. So take your newly found penis, put it in your pipe and smoke it.... No, not REALLY.
And now, after returning from a wonderful lunch at Fuddruckers, we have returned to the small cave-like dwelling I call my cubicle (the bonfire attracts MANY people... for you see... I... I have fire! And you don't. Nah nah nah nah nah!) and are ranting and raving under the stars. Which is tricky, being as it's 3 o'clock in the afternoon. And we're indoors. And we're on the 6th of 10 floors. So. Yeah.
I think at this point you can officially not believe anything I have said in this post. You can, but it's you're own folly. I'm in a whimsy mood and I can't tell you quite why. It's like meloncholy. I was sobbing in tears not more than an hour ago and now I'm laughing like someone's tickling my feet with a feather... wait... Christy, stop that! Dammit! I need my shoes! Come back here with my shoes! I can't go home without my goddamn shoes!!!!
We now return you to what may have been a regularly scheduled program, but knowing us was just reruns of a not so very interesting soap opera. We will attempt to bring you a new chapter of a much more interesting soap opera in the immediate future. It will have twists, turns, plot points, characters doing bizarre things and my mysterious identical twin brother Curt, who is 11 1/2 years younger than me. Or not. This has been a test of the Emergency Madness System. Had this been actual madness, I would have typed like this: s;lrjhg;pwahbignhoifborw3e[08gfjnvbioehoityq890 ucon;o35hgoiu ndi;o h35opui opnpouiwro nopib pourwhn Bob Dole ownhvpouashpoughwpuig hofisopuirwopuirhw Dubya Bush [spjgpoiewahpodv;l jerpogi foibn opjefn bpvcnpoibw oi Dan Quayle is GOD ljksngaeporhgopuidns oibjw4oupqg oipuas go "There is nothing more important than bondage between a mother and child." oifsdhopgiqewhiobpouiqhporjhf8oehqtp5 I repeat, this has only been ... A TEST.
Off to find my shoes, my brain and the yellow brick road. Not necessarily in that order.
"I'm going to get you and your little dog Tin Tin too! Muahahahahahahah!"
The story is thusly: Christy had an appointment to get her hair done this morning. This appointment was not in fact in the Sacramento area, but somewhere in the vague approximation of Berkeley. Exactly where I do not know, but then again I do not know exactly where most things are. My brain, for a prime example. Or my soul. (Say the bottom of my shoe and you're fucking fired, get it?) So since she needed to have this hair appointment during The Mythical Hours (I tell you, I have no real proof that time exists between, say, 7 a.m. and 9 a.m... I've been up UNTIL 7 a.m., and I've gotten up just after 9 a.m., but those two hours? They don't really exist...) and since it's a two hour drive from Sac and only about a 45 minute drive from my place, she drove down last night and crashed on my couch (which she, reading over my shoulder, says to say was "comfortable") after having a drinking bout with Joe, Lara, Joe's friends Ian and Patrick, as well as Marx. Marx, of course, drank EVERYONE under the table... (Never fuck with an alcoholic cat... he can and will prove you are weak...)
After her hair appointment, she spent several hours attempting to find Maxis. The tour guide who put the blindfold over her eyes assured her that the Fatwah of Death only applied if she saw how to actually get TO the studio. So he then got in a car, did doughnuts for two hours, then took her out of the car in exactly the same spot they started and walked her to the office. NOTE: None of this actually happened. If you believe me, you are a fool and a gentleman. Even if you're a lady. So take your newly found penis, put it in your pipe and smoke it.... No, not REALLY.
And now, after returning from a wonderful lunch at Fuddruckers, we have returned to the small cave-like dwelling I call my cubicle (the bonfire attracts MANY people... for you see... I... I have fire! And you don't. Nah nah nah nah nah!) and are ranting and raving under the stars. Which is tricky, being as it's 3 o'clock in the afternoon. And we're indoors. And we're on the 6th of 10 floors. So. Yeah.
I think at this point you can officially not believe anything I have said in this post. You can, but it's you're own folly. I'm in a whimsy mood and I can't tell you quite why. It's like meloncholy. I was sobbing in tears not more than an hour ago and now I'm laughing like someone's tickling my feet with a feather... wait... Christy, stop that! Dammit! I need my shoes! Come back here with my shoes! I can't go home without my goddamn shoes!!!!
We now return you to what may have been a regularly scheduled program, but knowing us was just reruns of a not so very interesting soap opera. We will attempt to bring you a new chapter of a much more interesting soap opera in the immediate future. It will have twists, turns, plot points, characters doing bizarre things and my mysterious identical twin brother Curt, who is 11 1/2 years younger than me. Or not. This has been a test of the Emergency Madness System. Had this been actual madness, I would have typed like this: s;lrjhg;pwahbignhoifborw3e[08gfjnvbioehoityq890 ucon;o35hgoiu ndi;o h35opui opnpouiwro nopib pourwhn Bob Dole ownhvpouashpoughwpuig hofisopuirwopuirhw Dubya Bush [spjgpoiewahpodv;l jerpogi foibn opjefn bpvcnpoibw oi Dan Quayle is GOD ljksngaeporhgopuidns oibjw4oupqg oipuas go "There is nothing more important than bondage between a mother and child." oifsdhopgiqewhiobpouiqhporjhf8oehqtp5 I repeat, this has only been ... A TEST.
Off to find my shoes, my brain and the yellow brick road. Not necessarily in that order.
"I'm going to get you and your little dog Tin Tin too! Muahahahahahahah!"
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