Addendum To The Addendum To The Duodenum
Pointing and then shooting a gun: the video game simulation attempt
i am in a forest. look, a birdie. oh mister birdie, how grievously and shamefully you have wronged yourself. goodness knows there was a time once when your poor, dear old mother could look upon your beaky countenance and regale herself with tales of virtue and chastity, those characteristics being your very own. but now in this light sztreaming from the forest roof, i see that it is not a forest i am in at all. it is a room, sans roof. birdie, did you take my roof? i shall not be angry if you did. there are little letters on my buttons, and i am not amused. birdie, i shall not make pretenses: for this you shall pay penance. the removal of my thatched roof i can exist by the side of, but the placement of white letters upon my finger-buttons has wounded me sorely in an area i was once proud enough to believe myself invulnerable. birdie, must it come to this? must i truly push back the safety, my fingers trembling? must i watch, as the sky reflects on the metallic barrel of my wonderful, wooden GUN is retrieved from its holster and pointed at your feathery head? i must, i feel. it is my duty as a citizen of this great republic. birdie, i am not the killing sort. i will give you, from the depths of my Jarvik Artificial Heart ™ a chance, oh a bonnie chance. do not try my patience, birdie. i know of locations where the darkest-souled fiends devour whole creatures like you, only pausing to pluck, roast, and tear asunde thy tiny body with various sharp implements before devouring you. not whole, for i have been erroneous, birdie, and in any fashion your ending will be similiarly gruesome. better the devil you know, birdie. better the devil you know. and the devil you know stands before you now, with the sun gleaming upon his gun’s barrel and his finger a-twitchin’. i shall consort with you as a foul beast of the forest once more, birdie, and only once. was it you in all your lack of chastity and virtue, your tarnished audaciousness, that took flight through my opened bed-chamber window, through my boudoir (for i, birdie, am no anglified tart. i know of words that are not directly germanic in descent), and into the cupboard, where my shiny black square metal electronic button finger devices were being held, securely, until further questioning? did you then, birdie, as i assume, take from ‘neath your crested plume a tiny paintbrush, coated in white primer of the most foul and wicked nature, and with this primer FUCKING WRITE TINY WHITE FUCKING LETTERS ON MY FUCKING KEYBOARD??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!
I AM NOT PLEASED! THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS, AND I DEMAND RECOMPENSATION FOR THE DAMAGES DONE!
just then, in malaysia, everybody died. and so my leukemia was cured and the birdie was strung up and eaten. as i had planned all along. and now, a pictorial guide on fowl cookery:
