it's the one I told you about, doc...
No, not the one where I'm telling
Natalie Portman to lay down in a
bath of ice water while I paint her lips blue.
Whaddya think I am, some kind of necrophiliac pervert?
It's always the same, when it happens...
A room, cold grey light, diffused, like mist is when it's around you...
I am seated at a table, facing Alan Greenspan; before me, some strange device, apparently a speculum, only much much larger and a tube of "Ben Dover's Anal Lubricant"...I open the tube, squeeze the contents of the entire thing into my mouth, and pause for a moment, enjoying the tart cherry flavor and sudden numbness in my throat and lips.
I rise out of my chair and walk around, kicking the chair out from under him; I stoop to where he now lies on the floor, prone and strangely silent. In one deft movement, I heave his form onto the table and insert the strange chrome device into his nether regions...Shortly after inserting my foot and pushing in, up to the knee, I give pause at the realization that this is going to be more work than I'd anticipated, drooling a little due to the liberal use of Ben's jelly.
Forcing the leg up and up and up, finally reaching a point where I can slide myself into the man's hunched-over torso. Pulling the rest of my body along behind my already Greenspan-encased limbs, I am now enclosed in the relative safety of the body of THE ONE FINAL HUMAN BEING who has any faith in the U.S. economy.
I could be wrong; hold forth.
It's raining, which condition shitcans any plans to air up my bike tires and pedal to the Longhorn Ballroom, break in, and take pictures. No dumpster diving, either. What a drag.