Saturday, September 27, 2003

He loved her so. From her psychedelic jumpsuits to her hemp-muffs.

It was the summer of 2046. And he was having a panic-attack. God ... why can't I call her? I'll end up alone, drinking vodka from a paper cup and sleeping with chickens for money. He periodically glanced at the phone from the corner of his eye while he stirred lumpy gravy over his aromatherapy candles. His heart was beating like an African fertility dance. His spray-on toupee was sliding off his head in excitement. The intensity was electrifying.

"Hello ... is this ...?"

"What the fu ...? Who be dis?"

"I don't know how to say this. Uh. I like you. Very much. Just as you are ... apart from the smoking, the drinking, and the pastry roll diet ..."

"Bloody hell ... Ma! It's one of yours. No, I can't handle it. You promised you'd do the balding-bachelors and amputatees if I did the meat-fetishists and fruit masochists. Which reminds me. [*scream*] We just ran out of pineapples."


Moral of the story: Don't eat gravy that ends up smelling like juniper berries and fresh roadkill from your head. It might accidently make you call 1-800-KINKY-4-U.

*Again, I heart Bridget Jones

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