black sunday
I accidentally stepped on a snail last night in my drunken walk to my door. It made a crunchy sound not like breakfast cereal, but like a tank rolling over a nazi world war two style crunchy. I felt bad for the dude. I'm at work now and I still feel bad. He was probably going to slime over and meet up with some hot mama snail in the next rose bush. I ruined his play. I'm such a jerk. I think I might stave off any bad karma coming my way by giving the little bugger a proper funeral. Scoop him up, dig a little hole, make a tombstone out of a popsicle stick and bury him in the flower bed. I'd read the euology and sing a Cure song. I'd sing a cure song because robert smith seems gloomy and it was raining all gnarley when my bi pedal movements cut short the snail's slow life. If anyone wants to come, they're more than welcome. I'll have those little finger sandwiches and maybe some crackers with that spray cheese with the little pieces of bacon. If you're vegetarian, I"ll put some peanut butter on celery. Please wear black and don't bring flowers, bring beer.