Pondering the Stupid
Why do people bother me?
I mean, honestly, do some folks just go out their way to say, "Hey, there's Flo. We know she doesn't like us. In fact, she rather eat a hobos shit that talk to us for more than five seconds. Let's be friends!"
The wheel is turning, but the hampster is dead. In fact, rigor mortis has set in and it's tiny paws sort of look like Dr. Faber's bastardized hand-claw.
In fact, next time that little chubby fuck from the theatre goes out of his way to talk to me, I think our conversation might look like this:
Chubby Mumbler: Hey Flo, how's it go? Heh heh, I made a rhyme with your name. Love me!
Flo: ...
Chubby Mumbler: So, what are you doing, Flo?
Flo: Pondering Suicide. Or Homicide. Whichever strikes my fancy. It really all depends on how many sharp pencils I have in my purse.
Chubby Mumbler: You're so funny! Yak, yak, yak...
Flo: Why are you still talking to me? Sit over there. Do not pass go. Do not collect 200 hundred dollars.
Chubby Mumbler: Will you help me with my math homework? Even though this is a theatre class, and I know that you rather lick a dog's ass than be around me.
Flo: Where's Jeffery Dahmer when you need him?...
Oh well. Backing away from my unneccessary and incessant bitching (See what Nyquil will do to you?), I need to work on my Calculus homework, amongst other evil things. Plus there's thing called an AP Exam that I have next week. I should probably ask for money for that. Hmm...though that would involve me conversing with my parents in a civil manner.
The street corner it is! Now where did I put those sparkly hooker boots of mine. This shouldn't take very long. I only need 104 dollars. Plus, I think that my next door neighbor might be a child molester. God, I love Houston!
[End Scene.]
I mean, honestly, do some folks just go out their way to say, "Hey, there's Flo. We know she doesn't like us. In fact, she rather eat a hobos shit that talk to us for more than five seconds. Let's be friends!"
The wheel is turning, but the hampster is dead. In fact, rigor mortis has set in and it's tiny paws sort of look like Dr. Faber's bastardized hand-claw.
In fact, next time that little chubby fuck from the theatre goes out of his way to talk to me, I think our conversation might look like this:
Chubby Mumbler: Hey Flo, how's it go? Heh heh, I made a rhyme with your name. Love me!
Flo: ...
Chubby Mumbler: So, what are you doing, Flo?
Flo: Pondering Suicide. Or Homicide. Whichever strikes my fancy. It really all depends on how many sharp pencils I have in my purse.
Chubby Mumbler: You're so funny! Yak, yak, yak...
Flo: Why are you still talking to me? Sit over there. Do not pass go. Do not collect 200 hundred dollars.
Chubby Mumbler: Will you help me with my math homework? Even though this is a theatre class, and I know that you rather lick a dog's ass than be around me.
Flo: Where's Jeffery Dahmer when you need him?...
Oh well. Backing away from my unneccessary and incessant bitching (See what Nyquil will do to you?), I need to work on my Calculus homework, amongst other evil things. Plus there's thing called an AP Exam that I have next week. I should probably ask for money for that. Hmm...though that would involve me conversing with my parents in a civil manner.
The street corner it is! Now where did I put those sparkly hooker boots of mine. This shouldn't take very long. I only need 104 dollars. Plus, I think that my next door neighbor might be a child molester. God, I love Houston!
[End Scene.]