Saturday, March 12, 2016

the ass of you speaks again

I decided one day, after my experiences in Rockingham at Walmart Supercenter #1010, that if I'm gonna be your ass, or an ass at all, I was going to be the most proud and impertinent buttock cheeks I could be.

So here I am.

Rock you like a hurricane.

I took off the badge so I could do more damage.

Lots of guys quit the job to work the other side of the street.

I like Sportcycles, but I ain't working at Aldi(not that I have a problem with Aldi, because I don't; it just ain't my bag).

My yard stinks.  The nearby farmer has spread poopie as a fertilizer.  I'm currently soldiering through, trying to ignore the stench while having a good thought about the yield of those fields.  I do hope it does some good in the long run, despite the stench over here.  I'm serious.

What else happened?

Does any of this matter?  You're just gonna die, after all, no matter what I say here.  You got to have perspective.  A matter of philosophy for another day-preferably a day that is less pretty.

I should take naked pictures of myself, offer myself up as some kind of fat hairy phoenix, spiting the curses of the world.  Now there is a notion worth a bit of research.  My nudity digitized.  The failure of the Chumby.  A plague of milky flesh unleashed on the world, but as an afterthought, that a mere afterthought destroys the world entire.

If you took naked pics of yourself, what would you do with them?  Who is your target audience?  Is it to entice?  Or instruct, as models to artists?  Or an anthropological concern, like a guidepost on the evolutionary scale?  Or would it be a hedge against boredom, to get naked and turn on the phone and feel that little tingle in your nether regions while snapping a photo, like Kim K.?

You decide.

To Kim K: keep the naked pictures coming.  I see some of them.  Never gonna follow you on twitter or Instagram, but you get spread around, if you know what I mean.  You in the ether, bitch.

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