Complete Bus For Got The Memory-Approved Convulsive DIsorder
All good things must come to an end, I suppose.
Remember the time I tricked Chuck into thinking I had cancer? No? Well, it's back there, in the archives. I'm sure you could find it. Remember when Chuck thought I was a lady? Well, that too is in the anals.
Yes, the anals. The annals are different. You see, I have devised a clever new way to remember history, involving a dedicated, non-hygiene-concerned tattoo artist, some leather straps, an ergonomic surgeon's table, and most importantly, Xanax. Lots and lots of Xanax. I think it's important that Xanax begins with an "x" and ends with an "x," because otherwise I could not get away with taking them so copiously. "I might forget 'x,' the last letter in the alphabet, if only I do not take my Xanax," I say to Nurse. Nurse is not a tolerant woman, oddly. Curse the Nurse! Lasterday she utilised a heavy quilt in entrapping me, whereupon this grievous incident I was injected in the buyttock with some foul medication. I immediately felt much stronger, and yet filled with an aggression and emptiness I had never known to be inside me. My nipples swelled to the size of grapes, and my testes shrank...
...Twelve months later, in Tucson, there was a grapefruit and then we all ate it. "Sistuh! Sistuh! Come quickly, Y'hear?" I cried, but the truck holding my stuffed animals was departing at speeds I used to think only I could travel at. I jumped on a wheel, went to Omaha City, where the grass was green and the girls were all terrible whores. There, I drunk a whiskey-barrel in three nights and blew a flying elephant from the sky with my trusty Smith & Wesson.
No, a watch. What'd you think? A gun? What? Everyone knows Smith & Wesson make watches and flashlights. In fact, I think I can recall their motto now: "Here at Smith & Wesson, if we do not make a flashlight or watch that suits you perfectly, we will arrive at your domicile with our world-reknowned firearms and shoot you 'til you're dead!"
I wrote this using Excel.
Remember the time I tricked Chuck into thinking I had cancer? No? Well, it's back there, in the archives. I'm sure you could find it. Remember when Chuck thought I was a lady? Well, that too is in the anals.
Yes, the anals. The annals are different. You see, I have devised a clever new way to remember history, involving a dedicated, non-hygiene-concerned tattoo artist, some leather straps, an ergonomic surgeon's table, and most importantly, Xanax. Lots and lots of Xanax. I think it's important that Xanax begins with an "x" and ends with an "x," because otherwise I could not get away with taking them so copiously. "I might forget 'x,' the last letter in the alphabet, if only I do not take my Xanax," I say to Nurse. Nurse is not a tolerant woman, oddly. Curse the Nurse! Lasterday she utilised a heavy quilt in entrapping me, whereupon this grievous incident I was injected in the buyttock with some foul medication. I immediately felt much stronger, and yet filled with an aggression and emptiness I had never known to be inside me. My nipples swelled to the size of grapes, and my testes shrank...
...Twelve months later, in Tucson, there was a grapefruit and then we all ate it. "Sistuh! Sistuh! Come quickly, Y'hear?" I cried, but the truck holding my stuffed animals was departing at speeds I used to think only I could travel at. I jumped on a wheel, went to Omaha City, where the grass was green and the girls were all terrible whores. There, I drunk a whiskey-barrel in three nights and blew a flying elephant from the sky with my trusty Smith & Wesson.
No, a watch. What'd you think? A gun? What? Everyone knows Smith & Wesson make watches and flashlights. In fact, I think I can recall their motto now: "Here at Smith & Wesson, if we do not make a flashlight or watch that suits you perfectly, we will arrive at your domicile with our world-reknowned firearms and shoot you 'til you're dead!"
I wrote this using Excel.
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