I burst out of my bed at the crack of 12:03pm.
"Ha! Vacation!" meine Schlange cried, doing its best Peter O'Toole impression. There is nothing quite like afternoon wood: it is the perfect exclamation point to punctuate a time of joy. The cock doth crow!
"Lunch!" my stomach commanded in a voice like James Earl Jones's, and I moved quickly to obey.
Thus it is, good gentles, that I embark upon my month of vacation. Only one date has been explicitly marked with anything to do: June 10, on which day I shall meet with Charles of Liminality for a barbecue* and dine upon the still-quivering flesh of the dead, thereby affirming man's supremacy over the realm of bovine and fowl.
A footnote to yesterday: I went to the miasmic den of the local seamstress in the dark of mid-evening, but arrived too late to procure my pants from the seamstress herself, a plump and vile crone who keeps my pants in her clutches. The gateway to her fortress was closed under lock and key. Curses! May the witch's fetid mammaries be filled with pus and scarred by acid! Today, I try again. Once more unto the britches, dear friends!
O My Pants! Though I may die in the attempt, you shall know FREEDOM!
Wish your humble narrator well. A month of high adventure awaits!
*In Korean-- and in Massachusetts English-- the word sounds more like "Bobby Q."
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I'm taking a short break from that which cannot be named. That which cannot be named is strange, and I have no idea whether I've done well or poorly. In the mean time, Kevin, these hilarious, hyperbolic posts always make my day!
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