Friday, March 25, 2016

Where Walks... ...the Dinkler!!(or Choose Your Own Adventure: Bathroom Edition)

The shadow knows.

One minute you're in your shorts tending the irises; the next minute your arm is rippled clean off at the shoulder.

Shoulder meat is good.

The Dinkler strikes without warning, so make sure your pants are pulled up tight, your shirt is tucked in securely, and not a scrap of undergarment is showing.

I tell you this: those that are come upon unawares will at least slow the Dinkler as he stops to destroy them, so I will have more time to get away.  And in the end, that's what matters most: that I am spared from destruction.

Stop cherry-picking polling data.  It's undignified.

Bring the wives to me that I may see which pleases me most.

The Dinkler was born as an afterthought, like the thunder that accompanies a violent strike of lightning.  Sometimes, poopoo happens, and here you want me to justify why the Dingler came into being, but I tell you, the Dinkler was born of our own flaws.

Not our fault, per se.  I am not a Western apologist(like some people).  I live in one of the very greatest places in the world, and I am proud of it.  I have an easy life.  I am overweight, well-fed, and I love television.

Yet the Dinkler was put together particle by hateful particle by our inequity, our darkness, and it is up to us as strongest and most just of the world to combat the menace.  I propose building a woman robot, with realistic feminine parts, to aid me in my pursuits, and be my companion.  I don't need a phone that eavesdrops like a Siri or the Google "sherry".  I need something with a pair of legs.

Who doesn't like legs, particularly with biscuits and coleslaw?

I'm not telling you to repent, because that would probably cut into your television time.  So calm down, right there!  We have young adults that need employment: those might be called to service to fight or at least deter the Dinkler.  For a pittance.  So you just go about your business; doing important things like playing golf, taking your Toyota to the automated carwash, and stuffing the munchkins with hamburgers and fries.

These things have a way of ironing themselves out all on their own, sometimes.

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