hallucinations - Sam and Max style
on my voice mail.
BEEP - heh heh heh heh ::Snort:: Roooooooooh Hahahahahahaha I am no-one- - I am resisolobussss BRRrraaaauuugh ::thupthupthup::
I think it's demonically possessed, or my buddy Dan is up to his old tricks.
My fave interjection of the moment. "Holy Jumping Mother O' God in a sidecar with chocolate jimmies and a lobster bib!"
Give me a root beer popsicle to dip into an orange julius. It's good. Trust me on this one.
Argh. I was wondering... why did they name the mission to the moon for Apollo, the god of the sun? Why not Diana? or Some other moon-like thing, like the green cheese express? It doesn't make sense to me. I bet you can breathe on the moon. They can in all the movies... I bet it was just the candy-butt astronauts were too afraid to try taking off their precious helmets. Sissies. Ah, probably not. I'm jealous because you have to be between 5'8" and 6 foot tall to be a spaceman. I look out my window, and see murky outlines of terrible immense beings lumbering thorugh a nightmarish cityscape. They're trundling toward me... is scurrying pathetically away like an earwig an altogether unmanly thing to do? ::removes brain from convolution analyzer:: Hm. Twisty.
Thinking about my need for groceries. I realize that I shouldn't shop when hungry or conscious. the grocery store near me has great stuff, from amusement park quality lunch meat, to matzo balls (with free launcher inside!). Cereal. a Delicious thing. the smell of polyvinyl, day-glo and glow-in the dark treats...the last time I got Cap'n Crunch, the toys inside expressed themselves as possessed evil spirits strolling in and out of the cosmic doggy-door between here and the hereafter. The air was filled with a preternatural evil, not unlike the after effects of a coney island hot dog, as described to me, very recently by an increasingly pregnant friend. I began to scream like a grandmother, fleeing for my life from the manifestation of the collective sorrow and frustration of all those people whose apple cart and roadside beef stand businesses were steamrolled into the ground by the cold, sterile megamart like the one I was in. Or it was a ghost. I channeled my energies in a more positive direction instead, and bit the foul toy creature repeatedly. In my victory over them one thing ran through my mind, again and again. Don't forget the pop-tarts.
I'm officially slap happy. I'm going to bed. ugh.
BEEP - heh heh heh heh ::Snort:: Roooooooooh Hahahahahahaha I am no-one- - I am resisolobussss BRRrraaaauuugh ::thupthupthup::
I think it's demonically possessed, or my buddy Dan is up to his old tricks.
My fave interjection of the moment. "Holy Jumping Mother O' God in a sidecar with chocolate jimmies and a lobster bib!"
Give me a root beer popsicle to dip into an orange julius. It's good. Trust me on this one.
Argh. I was wondering... why did they name the mission to the moon for Apollo, the god of the sun? Why not Diana? or Some other moon-like thing, like the green cheese express? It doesn't make sense to me. I bet you can breathe on the moon. They can in all the movies... I bet it was just the candy-butt astronauts were too afraid to try taking off their precious helmets. Sissies. Ah, probably not. I'm jealous because you have to be between 5'8" and 6 foot tall to be a spaceman. I look out my window, and see murky outlines of terrible immense beings lumbering thorugh a nightmarish cityscape. They're trundling toward me... is scurrying pathetically away like an earwig an altogether unmanly thing to do? ::removes brain from convolution analyzer:: Hm. Twisty.
Thinking about my need for groceries. I realize that I shouldn't shop when hungry or conscious. the grocery store near me has great stuff, from amusement park quality lunch meat, to matzo balls (with free launcher inside!). Cereal. a Delicious thing. the smell of polyvinyl, day-glo and glow-in the dark treats...the last time I got Cap'n Crunch, the toys inside expressed themselves as possessed evil spirits strolling in and out of the cosmic doggy-door between here and the hereafter. The air was filled with a preternatural evil, not unlike the after effects of a coney island hot dog, as described to me, very recently by an increasingly pregnant friend. I began to scream like a grandmother, fleeing for my life from the manifestation of the collective sorrow and frustration of all those people whose apple cart and roadside beef stand businesses were steamrolled into the ground by the cold, sterile megamart like the one I was in. Or it was a ghost. I channeled my energies in a more positive direction instead, and bit the foul toy creature repeatedly. In my victory over them one thing ran through my mind, again and again. Don't forget the pop-tarts.
I'm officially slap happy. I'm going to bed. ugh.
