Horse with No Name Kills Man with No Fear

Festivales,

Sometimes we drink too many "relaxative" beers to effectively do our master's level schoolwork. In these dusky times, we sink deeper into the chair, slouch a bit further, and remember blonde orviraptors with names like Clint, who we framed unjustly as an afficianado of Madonna's "Die Another Day". Ah, times.

Two soldiers in sandy fatigues were engaging in casual discourse in the lobby of OSU's library tonight. One of them was talking about forcing some guy to lick his own asshole. I couldn't tell if it was rhetorical or in earnest. I would have asked the man, but I did not for fear of seeming unpatriotic. I'm not unpatriotic, I'm unpolitical. Let the rulers do their thing, I have useless tidbits of minutae to observe and categorize for no implicit purpose. No time for the fruitless beating of the breast at issues that no one can understand or reverse.

Enough of the soap box. I will write an autobiographical graphic novel called "Count Stumpula". It will be translated into Czech and sold rampantly at America's next Metaphor and Irony exhibition. Everyone will pass the bread, but only the longest of arms will have a chance to crumble a ball out of the loaf for their own nourishment. The smallies will sniff up their faces in defeat. And a grand jig will be executed by the Shaker of Earths, which will vaticanize all urban areas. Mayors will turn Pontiff, and all gangstas will be outfitted with the crimson robes and outstretched hat of the Inquisitorial Guard. Well then, net-heads, this will separate the Men from the N'men and our new currency will be Love. In the most tactile sense. Hide your daughters from this day. Freeze them in special bags in the basement.

Then give me the keys to the cooler, because you can trust me. I am, afterall, the one who gave you such good advyce.

Karbonk,
Sincerely.