Listening to the online instant radio, I was pleased to hear a panel of zanies discussing a range of subjects that reminded me of a swarm of fruit flies. No one seemed to be getting to any type of point, and they were presenting a decent case for that being unnecessary. They were empowered to do the show by virtue of free services. I am wearing earth tone, Earth mother print theme tunics and pantaloons to convince anyone this shit makes sense.
On more sedate afternoons, soft flesh robots talk to each other in a sort of trance. It's a shared trance. Perhaps they're all on opiates together. As if all studied together in the same
corrective facility.
Very little information escapes the 3 inch speakers plugged into a fire engine red plastic netbook out of which I am enjoying the radio show. Maybe I should call it a podcast. Disappointed.
Note: seems like you have to stick this microphone in your mouth, same as the other one. This garbage is being written using voice recognition software, no shit, I'm talking into a tiny microphone held in my fist, like bird felatio. Like rock'em sock'em robots blowing each other. too, for the consternation. Allowing for more advanced and more miniaturized technology. Annoying.
Well. People's vacuous, derivative prattling is as grand as the hanging Gardens of Babylon.
Have I woken up angry again? Is this merely the work of a not too social person? Have a cup of coffee, and read a passage composed just for you, here at the not too social hour. It's what I call the house. I call my house "the not-to-social hour." It is both the theme and an affectation.
The runtish microphone I am talking into is reminding me of a mole. Or maybe a mouse. The kind of little vermin that leaves droppings. Not the computer apparatus.
I put out a fresh tray of rat poison in the kitchen, and felt a sort of motherly concern that perhaps some of the little rats weren't eating.
But actually, I am certain that all the rats are eating their share of the poison. And sharing it with friends and family. I've been a happier man since I started sharing poison with the rats. There's a rat problem in the city.
An old lady who lives in Polish Hill was telling me, one fine afternoon, the city came up and put out industrial-strength rat poison in the field beside her house. It came in a container that looked like a World War II grenade. Civic weapons worked great because she could see the rats frolicking on any afternoon before they put out the poison and it was like just plain old barren weeds afterwards.
I encountered a small group of dead rats in the sports field in front of the Observatory this afternoon when I went out on the electric bicycle to throw boomerangs. They were flattened. Desiccated . I didn't mind. I'm not one of those ingrates who go crying that there's dead rats on the lawn and someone in authority should come and pick them up, as in "who's responsible for these dead rats being here." I'm glad the city poisoned them.
On more sedate afternoons, soft flesh robots talk to each other in a sort of trance. It's a shared trance. Perhaps they're all on opiates together. As if all studied together in the same
corrective facility.
Very little information escapes the 3 inch speakers plugged into a fire engine red plastic netbook out of which I am enjoying the radio show. Maybe I should call it a podcast. Disappointed.
Note: seems like you have to stick this microphone in your mouth, same as the other one. This garbage is being written using voice recognition software, no shit, I'm talking into a tiny microphone held in my fist, like bird felatio. Like rock'em sock'em robots blowing each other. too, for the consternation. Allowing for more advanced and more miniaturized technology. Annoying.
Well. People's vacuous, derivative prattling is as grand as the hanging Gardens of Babylon.
Have I woken up angry again? Is this merely the work of a not too social person? Have a cup of coffee, and read a passage composed just for you, here at the not too social hour. It's what I call the house. I call my house "the not-to-social hour." It is both the theme and an affectation.
The runtish microphone I am talking into is reminding me of a mole. Or maybe a mouse. The kind of little vermin that leaves droppings. Not the computer apparatus.
I put out a fresh tray of rat poison in the kitchen, and felt a sort of motherly concern that perhaps some of the little rats weren't eating.
But actually, I am certain that all the rats are eating their share of the poison. And sharing it with friends and family. I've been a happier man since I started sharing poison with the rats. There's a rat problem in the city.
An old lady who lives in Polish Hill was telling me, one fine afternoon, the city came up and put out industrial-strength rat poison in the field beside her house. It came in a container that looked like a World War II grenade. Civic weapons worked great because she could see the rats frolicking on any afternoon before they put out the poison and it was like just plain old barren weeds afterwards.
I encountered a small group of dead rats in the sports field in front of the Observatory this afternoon when I went out on the electric bicycle to throw boomerangs. They were flattened. Desiccated . I didn't mind. I'm not one of those ingrates who go crying that there's dead rats on the lawn and someone in authority should come and pick them up, as in "who's responsible for these dead rats being here." I'm glad the city poisoned them.
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