Phrembah (a potato-like mystery) (phrembah) wrote,
Phrembah (a potato-like mystery)


I’m tired and bored.  What to do?  I think I’ll quit my job and get some sleep.  Real sleep this time.

. . .

You have less of a mind to entertain than I do.  My mind consumes more than two and a half times its own weight in entertainment each day!  How am I supposed to keep up with that? 

. . .

Meriblaghtt Industries—The Industries You Need!  (amen)

. . .

These little deals : . . . , the three bold dots centered on the page, separate one fart from the next, you see.  They serve as temporal ellipses that can be read, “time passed.”  We don’t know how much time, we just know that the text doesn’t represent one long continuous fart that no one could stop letting.  There’s some comfort in that, at least.  And delineation.  And punctuation, which was the whole point in the first place, don’t you know.  Okay, now we’ve produced more text explaining the punctuation than there is punctuated text.  That’s how you know you’ve done all that could ever be expected (I repeat: amen).

. . .

I know nothing of your saintly ways, being naught but a scumbag, myself.  Maybe you could have people walk before you in procession down the hall carrying those T-bar thingies with flags hanging from them, so that all would feel your saintliness e’en e’er thou approacheth.  You have to give them a cue to get themselves into a worshipful mood before you pass.  You have to walk slow and very statily.  And the guy swinging the incense stencher can walk behind—or does he go in front?  So much of that saintly shit is lost on me.  I never know whether it’s supposed to be scary or holy or inspirational or what.  It’s boring; I can tell you that.  So is pretty much everything that involves more than one person.  Ever notice that?  If there are two or more people doing something, one of them is into it and the others are waiting for it to be over.  Even sex.  Hell, especially sex.  Oops.  This was going to be long and hilarious but I just accidentally bored myself in the foot and I can’t go on.  Not for my sake or yours and certainly not for posterity.  Perhaps posthumously.  We’ll see.  I should have more time then.

. . .

My Dearest Pontchartrain,

    How’s it hangin’?  We just lost the war last night, so we’ve spent the day putting all of the cannons and shit in storage till next time.  I guess we’ll ride the horses home and eat them there.  Gotta keep killin’ them birds, hey?  I been trying to find some street clothes to wear to my new job at Cratchit Investments.  The lace and ruffles of war are hardly appropriate for a clark’s duties.  People ask me again and again, won’t I miss the thrill of leading men into battle against themselves?  I think not, really.  This last war left me with rather severe boils and hemorrhoids from all of the inhospitable places I was forced to sit awaiting the adoration of my men.  No, give me the simple life from here on in.

    Yours (or not),

        Twank, Col., Ret.

Tags: brain fart, compelling chronicle, profundity extraordinaire

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