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Topic Drift

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Peril At Every Turn

Listen, the foam is falling off my office chair armrest and the deadly metal within is poking through. Next time I go in for a proper arm lean I may skid off the armrest and shear the flesh from my arm. I don’t like this possibility, but it’s better than drowning in rice porridge or being crushed in the street by enormous Americans trying parkour. Danger indoors, danger outdoors. Can’t even hide out on the roof without being shat on by starlings.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

She Bears My Right to Arm Supports

Liking Sarah Palin

It goes without saying that I like Sarah Palin because she supports my right to collect firearms sufficient to punch my way out of the city when the zombie shit goes down. But what I like most about Sarah Palin is her creamy peanut butter center! Of course, I enjoy the chocolately coating as well. The two combined create a terrific taste sensation. She also reminds me of my Aunt Floratine, who spent her evenings sewing delightful outfits for the badgers she trapped in the crawlspace. She drugged them, you see. If you try to dress a sober badger in a pinafore you’ll get your face eaten off.

Monday, November 16, 2009


O, the passage of time, with its attendant sorrows and panic and sudden suspicious odors, etc. Stupid. Anyway, I don’t remember what the question was, but the answer is of course I want to type into my blog again, at least for now and at least until next week, when I will reevaluate this decision and disappear for another 16 months.

Little has occurred since last I wrote. Of note:

-Rafe went to Cote D’Ivoire and became lodged between a chest of drawers and an automated meat-pie vendor. I saved him, though barely, and he lost the false whiskers he was using to disguise himself.

-In April I nearly threw out a set of knives that once belonged to Charles II, but I kept them when I discovered that the handles were hollow and stuffed with smaller knives.

-Last summer I found tunnels under the boiler room leading to a cave full of ripening cheese. Whose cheese this is and what it is doing in my mystery cave, I haven’t the slightest.

-Flavian returned to claim his inheritance; when he realized that no one of money had died yet, he mooned about the house for three days and then wandered off into the fog. His last postcard indicated that he was again in Haiti and had consumed nothing but pistachio nuts and warm cola for two weeks.

And that brings us to the present. Just heard a terrific joke about voles.