So my buddy, Dave just got back from a wonderful European trip to London, Scotland and Greece. I am so envious of his jet-setting ways. While he was away, Gabrielle and I looked after Susie, Dave’s aunt…and for this Dave brought us gifts. Something he definitely didn’t need to do but it was really nice that he thought of us. Dave brought Gabrielle this gorgeous Grecian urn with a Diana motif painted on it. He also brought us a jar of figs….mmmmmm….figs. Lastly, Dave brought me something that I’ve been wanting for quite awhile and he got me a top of the line model.
It is an exquisite antique cantle dress sporran made with Greenland Sealskin….so nice and so very appreciated…can’t wait to wear it to a Seelie concert with the Utilikilt.
Oh the immutable pain of it all…will it ever end…the suffering is palpable. It’s because of them…yes them…those bunnies…damn damn bunnies. Who do they think they are defecating their rancid tater-tot pellets. Why can’t they leave me alone…some solace…a bit of peace is all I ask. What force of the universe conceived that psychotic hash-brown bunnies was a positive contribution to the flow of humanity?
It all began with the Potato Genesis Project, a secretly funded aspiration of potato loving, fluffy animal infatuated octogenarians with a dash of affinity to eccentric projects that are meant to defy the nature of the cosmos. I can care less if these dilettante gods want to destroy mankind, but must I know about it? Why can’t my existence be ignored by these progenitors of hateful ways, the Solanum tuberosum cunicului? The bunnies…a creation of crossbreeding vegetable and animal. I fear…oh how I fear that these self-indulgent deities will continue their reign of tuber terror by cross breeding the hash-brown bunnies with…dare I say it…a mineral.
I spy with my little eye, through the aperture of my cognition, inward toward the velvety palate of my uncertainty, a coalesced amalgam of fates. The synesthetic attributes induce a genesis of dendritic growth, that make me shed a technicolor drop of saline. Is it possible to just exit stage left and be done with it all or is our presence affixed to this sick plan by the psychosomatic mucilage of ancient geriatrics’s chimera? The pain is terrible and it dulls the senses. If I could simply order my conscripts to enforce a decree, that all hash-brown bunnies shall wield their behaviors in a manner that will quiesce hostility toward civilized manner, I would. However, the hash-brown bunnies are pertinacious and would rather fill their ears with the melted goo of depressed PEEPS that have thrown themselves upon the scintillation of humanities insouciance toward their sugary goodness than deal with any edict.
I will navigate through the conspiracy and obfuscated entrapments that the hash-brown bunnies have contrived for humanity. I will be perspicacious and winnow a favorable providence, but the amalgam is caustic and caution is key. Existence is full enough of tater-tot landmines, so I say lets cork-up those damn hash-brown bunnies. We must…for humanity before they can crossbreed with a mineral…imagine the horror of a hematite hash-brown bunny…imagine the ruthless savagery.
I therefore prepare to do battle; fortune favors the brave and so I arm myself. I sharpen my cerebrum to inflict damage with vehemence. I lubricate my reasoning and rationale to ensure fluidity of responsive thought. Lastly, I remain perspicacious and refuse to allow the metamorphic and inherently demonic nature of the environment thrust upon me to distort my path.
I will survive…