Bo Knows Donkey
I considered writing a story once, a story that no one would read. Then I realized that someone would read it, eventually, even if it wasn't in my lifetime, only... I don't believe in time. Not like other's do anyway, which they think is ridiculous, because the way they perceive time has been documented for thousands of years in books, on calendars, with sun-dials, and once by a monolithic monument in England that has never adequately been explained. Point is, other people believe in time. And the truly civilized also believe that time is money. I, for one, have never seen a minute paid for a day’s work, but money has to be worth something, so why not time? Not gold, that's for sure. The government abolished that standard long ago, choosing to replace it with the completely democratic mantra, "In God We Trust." For my part, I would have preferred something less subtle like “Good Luck Assholes."
So time became money, and now Wall Street sells futures. But you can't choose the future you want to have; you can only invest and hope for the best. But there must be some other ramification, I thought. If the future is here now, where does that leave the past? Certainly not behind me, or I would be able to turn around and go back. But I can't. So I can't believe in time, which means that I have no future. And I can't lose time, because I don't really have any, and I can't waste time, because I don't know how to spend it. Somewhere along that train of thought I decided to write my story, one whose final phrase would turn people off because it contained both the word donkey and fuck, though not in that order.
Chapter ONE
A wise man once said, "Sleep is for the weak." To which an even wiser man replied, “Yea, fuck you too.”
Sleep never did donkey any good. He always woke up late, his body stiff in places it shouldn't be, with a dry, foul-tasting mouth, covered in grimy, sweaty film and generally worse for wear than when he went to bed. He found it rather annoying that his body required something that he couldn't actively enjoy and in his fifty-third year, donkey decided enough was enough. He thought, If a neuro-physician with degrees in organic chemistry and biological psychology can't find a solution to sleep, then donkey be fucked.
So time became money, and now Wall Street sells futures. But you can't choose the future you want to have; you can only invest and hope for the best. But there must be some other ramification, I thought. If the future is here now, where does that leave the past? Certainly not behind me, or I would be able to turn around and go back. But I can't. So I can't believe in time, which means that I have no future. And I can't lose time, because I don't really have any, and I can't waste time, because I don't know how to spend it. Somewhere along that train of thought I decided to write my story, one whose final phrase would turn people off because it contained both the word donkey and fuck, though not in that order.
Chapter ONE
A wise man once said, "Sleep is for the weak." To which an even wiser man replied, “Yea, fuck you too.”
Sleep never did donkey any good. He always woke up late, his body stiff in places it shouldn't be, with a dry, foul-tasting mouth, covered in grimy, sweaty film and generally worse for wear than when he went to bed. He found it rather annoying that his body required something that he couldn't actively enjoy and in his fifty-third year, donkey decided enough was enough. He thought, If a neuro-physician with degrees in organic chemistry and biological psychology can't find a solution to sleep, then donkey be fucked.