The Golden Pin Shrine Remains Unmolested.
Author - Chris Weagel
Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.
G.G. Undervicker was caught by a frenzied mob trying to get candies out of the Alligator Machine. The Alligator Machine is owned and operated by Charles Landowher. He maintains it for the students of the alternative high school in the area. Its candies are not for grownups. They contain far too much sugar for a man to easily metabolize in this mechanized modern world and would surely advance any existing diabetic conditions. G.G. Undervicker did not care. He feared not the future. A future spent tied to a bed with bayou doctors sawing off limb after limb in a fruitless race against the diabetes while old G.G. blindly gobbles raw sugar cane and drinks Faygo sodas smuggled in by undisciplined orderlies. So Judge Walker decided on behalf of all of us, as he so often does, to banish G.G. to...
Opened the curtains on the door wall and the hot tub has been filled with sand. Not kitty litter. Fine, powdery sand. I suspect it was done by the gopher community next door. That species has never let go of the colonizing mindset.
The bigger question is where did the hot tub come from?
People say I have an unreasonable obsession with envelopes. That I horde too many of them. That those I do horde are irregularly shaped and colored and so rendered largely useless for everyday mailings. People accuse me of spending too much time in stationary shoppes, disturbing their window displays without permission. That I am too concerned with the glue and folding of my neighbors' envelopes and ask too many awkward questions about them during dinner parties. That I far too often attempt a citizen's arrest when I receive mail from these neighbors sent in an unsatisfactory envelope. People say I'm only interested in storing photographs of stuffed animals in my envelopes. YOU ARE ALL INVITED TO COME DOWN TO MY RIVER BENCH AND HELP ME TAPE THOSE LITTLE PIECES OF CELLOPHANE INTO No. 5...
The Bowling Alley Locker Area is still empty.
I realized that I left a tape recorder running for the better part of the last 14 years here underneath the headboard. Playing back the first 10 minutes or so, all I hear is whispering, whispering, whispering.
It's not my voice. And it's nothing terribly interesting. Just a lot of talk about value meal specials at fast food establishments and national holiday-themed mattress sales.
I can only assume it's what I discuss while asleep. And I regret not finding it until now as, from what I can tell, I missed out on a really great Fish-Sandwich/Craftmatic Adjustable Bed combo deal back in 2002 that would've both made me smarter and straightened out my back.
I'll have Franklin burn the tape later tonight.
If all goes according to plan, you will be the happy, successful new owner/operator of a Deluxe Ice Cream Shoppe and Camel Wash Station in rural Azerbaijan.
If it all goes to hell, run like a monkey on fire.