Johnny Fartenrod had too many English Bulldogs to assemble a proper team of chariot racers, but that didn’t mean much in the long run anyway. A chariot racer needs a swifter breed of canine, one that contributes more panting than snorting when all is said and done.
Johnny Fartenrod wouldn’t hear of it. He never took those competitions seriously, no matter what the prize happened to be. Now, it may seem a bit unfair that an individual as zealous and spirited as good ol’ Johnny can’t compete in the thrice-annual chariot races (sponsored by clinical-strength Moon Buggies®), but sometimes you have to understand that we all have our distinct purposes in life.
What is my purpose, masters? Am I special? Is that why I’m here?
I really wish I could use my arms.
Old Thomas Circuitberry had quite the affinity with our carriage lady and wouldn’t stop to pose for minor photography—no matter the monetary reward. The two of them made a habit of heading to the Metropolitan and drinking kool-aid all the way there, unbeknownst to their poor stomachs until it was too late—every single time.
All hell broke loose on a fairly regular basis—on at least 16 separate occasions. I kid you not; those two were so enamored with one another that a romantic tradition greatly overpowered sugar shock (and even the occasional split stomach).
We would observe this behavior and fail to ever remark upon it, satisfied to assume that their brand of love was unique, not to be tampered with for fear of unleashing the stores of karma they’d built up with every passing road trip.
This story is peculiar from a bystander’s point of view, as you undoubtedly noticed, o benevolent keepers of human specimens. Give me a margarita and leave me alone, would ya?
Bless this mess or any mess of equal or lesser value. This coupon may be redeemed at any place where futons are sold. Offer only valid in states south of Minnesota—not including Maryland—and void in any dwellings containing mole people. Individual outlets reserve the right to refuse service to beatniks, as liberties may come unhinged at any second. Consult a pediatrician to confirm the likelihood of contracting Goosebump Barrier Syndrome (GBS), a rare but likely inheritable (especially in your case) disorder caused by spirited debates with overqualified custodians during their smoke/coffee breaks. Additional information may be obtained by trekking across any number of arid climates, though traditional desert climes are highly recommended in this circumstance.
I could have made a good spokesman, eh?
All right, enough is enough. Can I use my arms now?
A wafer of indignity flew backwards through that cold, astringent night while peregrine potato bugs began their sultry swooning to be repeated, ad infinitum, until the cows come home to their cluttered garden apartments and flip on the boob tube for some unchallenging entertainment. Another day at the salt mines has left our bovine friends reaching for a simple night with chuckles, popcorn, reality TV and mediocre sex.
Moo. Somebody scratch my nose, please.
A bunch of clumps of pomegranate seeds in despicable climates—and rubber sapiens—ultimately climax at the wrong time for the wrong reason entirely. Because we supped upon tangible fruit of several looms, we had the shits for several days—as is proper. Building a future upon artificial cultivation seems probable, but foolish when you consider our penchant for throwing pigeon feathers at brick walls and expecting them to go right through. States of matter have always eluded us and laughed at our attempts to decode their pointless complexity, and today—more than ever—we find ourselves scratching the stumps that cap our necks in jovial wonder, slopping our spinach all over the sidewalk and stooping down to pet the short dogs that pant and pant at the bus stop, unaware that they don’t need to pay a fare.
Tempting and dangerous,
any and all alarming electric movements
take stock in curiosity,
infinitely patient, always current,
never guessing our next moves
but confident in the fact
that we’ll be moving
for as long as we have dominion
over this stubborn little globe
that we humans–meat sacks
is inherently conquerable.
Little do we comprehend
the supreme intelligence of the current,
the all-encompassing energy present
in anything worth a charge,
be it biological, mechanical
or a newfound combination–celebration–
of the two, seemingly at odds
for the longest, only to find
that their destiny was forged
long ago, perhaps by advanced peoples
unknown to all humankind, revealed
when the time has been deemed appropriate.
I’m telling you guys…
I don’t know what you’re thinking
when it comes to this planet’s
but I know for certain
that the most-evolved among us
won’t stand for anything less
than integration of souls and energy
when all is said and done.
I really wish I could use my arms.
Edgar stood, well enough aware that so many children have no resources to speak of, and playtime doesn’t mean much to them anyway. They have bigger thoughts on their minds, like ending global poverty or shooting the moon. If they’d been born with the opportunity (and indeed the duty) to waste resources, they would squirt ketchup at the problem, hoping that an intelligent solution would just present itself already–haven’t they been patient enough?!
Edgar knows that solutions aren’t a dime a dozen, contrary to the popular belief among his peer group. No good person, in Edgar’s mind, can stomach the ever-placating script that tells them to buy this or subscribe to that. “Isn’t it all just meaningless, anyway? It’s all contributing to the supposed need to consume foreign objects at the cost of individual liberties, here and abroad!”
This Edgar guy is on the right track, I think.
What?! There’s something in my eye! I thought you guys sealed this room off from foreign contaminants! I mean, I just assumed… what kind of rinky-dink operation is this, anyway?