Double Flee A

I'm not going to work tomorrow because my stomach is a cauldron of bile and chef boyardee, it's late, and work is really early. Chef boyardee is barely food. Like pop tarts. Did you know that the icing for cinnamon rolls that comes in the little can is pretty much just lard?

It's late, work is too early. I never ever do this, but I'm doing it tomorrow. Oh, and my damn car wouldn't start so some drunk neighbors came and pushed it to safety. With a big van. The ativan I took is doing wonders for my mood, though, which due to my bad dietary choices and a day at a soul-sucking company orientation was at a near-record low in recent memory.

Chef boyardee. Acrid sinful hate! I had a tum and burped. The burp didn't touch any part of my throat on the way up, it was a straight line out. You could actually hear the inside of my stomach, uncensored, which led to my naming it, the porn of burps. Like a wild animal stalking its prey, the burp is a shadow in the undergrowth, waiting for just the right moment to strike. And then, oh yeah, it's Isaac Hayes singing a song about your burp, which has come and gone, and passed into legend. That burp that some will say was the cause of the assassination of the archduke ferdinand, the burp that threw the sword to arthur, and the burp that led to so many petty grievances against the cheatham county school board by the pta.

The damn car is out of gas, that's why. I mean, who runs out of gas?

posted by dale @ 1:31 AM