The Whole Kit ‘n’ Caboodle

In order to explain myself, a croissant must be placed upon my upturned forehead for at least four minutes. Don’t ask why I need this action to transpire, just comply with my request and you will be briefed on my view of how things took such a sharp turn for the worse at Jovie’s funeral service.

–Four minutes later–

You may remove the croissant. If you’re hungry, you may eat it. I have no use for it anymore. Jovie was an angry man, so I found it fitting to bring a stink bomb to the proceedings. As they always say, he would have wanted it that way.

An accomplishment can turn into
a sour rattlesnake gargler
at the drop of a seventy-five gallon hat,
and I’m not too sure if I like them apples.

What we have here is a cycle doomed to repeat itself, to shrink away and outdrink itself every night until it wonders why it drank in the first place. It’s not like life is fun or anything–we have to make the best of it while it’s hanging around, you know? There’s nothing wrong with wanting to blink and be gone, but is that realistic? Where does matter go when it’s not here? It’s there, point taken, but where is there, anyway? That’s the question.

Access the place, that place you’d been a couple times before but never decided to revisit. What’s wrong with that place? Did it offend you in some fundamental way? Did it smell like cheese, knowing full well that you exclusively visit olive-scented establishments? That’s preposterous; a restaurant can’t know why a person dislikes the smell of cheese. It takes an airship to reach that decision. A restaurant is still a few steps down on the ladder. Once it gets to the next rung of testing and certifications, a restaurant can graduate to the likes of a pigeon wing sculpture, and only then will it be able to begin musing on the reason for things as they do (or do not) exist.

There are only so many ways to count your Gretchens as they flow across the gables and valleys and spritzers and hoodwinked masses of goat children (they prefer to be called kids). No matter, your Gretchens will come to a pass and deliver what you believe to be gracious pigmentry and something of an elusive Charles-o-meter before the time you are due to go in for surgery. As occasions such as this are widely extolled for their courtesy and generous charitable donations, we mustn’t forget the reason why our money makes us so powerful. It’s the Godlike influence, right? I just wanted to be clear.

Sometimes a person must accept that a life worth living does not primarily consist of flinging feces across the room at an undeserving third party (counting said person, feces, and recipient of said feces). Sometimes compromises must be made! Sometimes a person must abstain from flinging feces, regardless of whether or not it’s their feces to fling. Understanding this simple fact can save a lot of embarrassment and undesired odors over the course of a lifetime (in captivity). I’m not saying that a little feces flying through the air here and there will kill anybody, and, let’s face it, people will succumb to their weaknesses from time to time.