How the fuck do poet's make a living?

Mar 21, 2005 00:58

"Spare me master! Spare me!"
What shall I spare you petty surf?
"Nothing more than my life master"
Oh my, I was under the impression that you were requesting any spare sauce that I might have leftover in the cubbard.

Remember the POV shots from Terminator where Arnold would analyze people and it would say "John Connor" in that digital display thing.
I wish I had that, so if someone was a "Big Douche" I wouldn't have to waste my time getting to know them. It would have an alarm. Warning! Pussy emo kid! Warning!
or, Warning! Finch T-shirt!

I'm afraid, she said for the fourth time. I'm afraid, five. I'm afraid, she paused, that I have run out of trumpet oil. I chuckled, because it was the proper thing to do in that situation. Then I stopped chuckling because that also seemed to be proper after having chuckled for six minutes continuously. I young Oscar Meiyer once said "To chuckle for longer than a minute is improper but to chuckle less than five is unheard of."

This is a Kenan's Livejournal feminist moment: "There is a certain number of husbands who beat their wives and there is an equal number of wives who deserve it."
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