This Day in History!...even if it wasn't actually this day
On this day in history: Nick left the copy of “Oh my Goddess” in the car of our intensely fundamental Baptist preacher. Because it actually belonged to the Wells clan, Dave was immediately hanged from the gnarled willow at the edge of the old swamp. His body remains there to this day: green flesh now as taut and hard as a drum skin, eyes long since pecked out, toes eaten by swampfolk. Some of the innocent swampfolk have made a religious figure out of his corpse, and if you approach the swamp on misty nights you can hear their quaint music rattling on the breeze:
Toomaroo lo lo toomaroo lo lo
He’s our hangin’ boy
Toomara la la toomara la la
If he ever rises from the dead to consume the flesh of the livin’, we’re all fucked.
The swampfolk, as always, were unavailable for interview, but I was able to speak to some of the city residents living nearby. This is where I heard of the prom night tradition of “riding the hanging body.” Some people refer to the tradition as “the morbid pendulum” or the “carnal pendulum.” Most of the old men just call it “fucking the corpse.”
...
Every morning I feel like I’m going to die. I crawl, hand over hand, out of bed then drive to work then avoid auto accidents then dodge blind canes and seeing eye dogs and wheelchairs and crutches to get to my cubicle, and then I sit here and write blog entries and read the news because I have no real work to do! Which is great, I know—not complaining about that. I just wish I could work when there was work to do, instead of putting in 8 hours regardless of the need.
That’s sort of a crappy model for a workplace, isn’t it? I can see how in industry that’d be advantageous, but with something like my job, if there’s no work to do for eight hours, it’s almost sinister to keep me sitting here, staring at this computer, until 4:30.
Some fat old guy is doing the zombie shuffle down here and it’s freakin me out. Dragging his feet, moaning every few seconds, bumping into things. Go for the brains, you bastard. Go for the brains.
...
Also:Abby, of class reunion fame, somehow has my email. And she is asking for the addresses of Mel, Kevin, Goathizzle, R-MacDonut 3000, and Wauson. Oh, and Wells. If you want me to give her your address, send an email to pharaoh at gmail. If you want me to tell her you're dead, or pregnant, or too busy with your sex change operation to be bothered with your dear old high school buddies, send me an email as well. If you'd like to license me to make up my own circumstances for you, send me an email. Likely you will have last been seen wandering around the Orlando area in a bee costume, with what looked like Spam oozing out of the seams. When I asked you if you were okay, or if you were coming to the reunion, you slapped me with a tree branch and told me to get that damn dog back into the freezer. Then you pummeled my kidneys with swift roundhouse kicks. When I was bloodied and helpless on the sidewalk, you climbed into a shopping cart and rolled down the nearest hill, into the darkness.
Toomaroo lo lo toomaroo lo lo
He’s our hangin’ boy
Toomara la la toomara la la
If he ever rises from the dead to consume the flesh of the livin’, we’re all fucked.
The swampfolk, as always, were unavailable for interview, but I was able to speak to some of the city residents living nearby. This is where I heard of the prom night tradition of “riding the hanging body.” Some people refer to the tradition as “the morbid pendulum” or the “carnal pendulum.” Most of the old men just call it “fucking the corpse.”
...
Every morning I feel like I’m going to die. I crawl, hand over hand, out of bed then drive to work then avoid auto accidents then dodge blind canes and seeing eye dogs and wheelchairs and crutches to get to my cubicle, and then I sit here and write blog entries and read the news because I have no real work to do! Which is great, I know—not complaining about that. I just wish I could work when there was work to do, instead of putting in 8 hours regardless of the need.
That’s sort of a crappy model for a workplace, isn’t it? I can see how in industry that’d be advantageous, but with something like my job, if there’s no work to do for eight hours, it’s almost sinister to keep me sitting here, staring at this computer, until 4:30.
Some fat old guy is doing the zombie shuffle down here and it’s freakin me out. Dragging his feet, moaning every few seconds, bumping into things. Go for the brains, you bastard. Go for the brains.
...
Also:Abby, of class reunion fame, somehow has my email. And she is asking for the addresses of Mel, Kevin, Goathizzle, R-MacDonut 3000, and Wauson. Oh, and Wells. If you want me to give her your address, send an email to pharaoh at gmail. If you want me to tell her you're dead, or pregnant, or too busy with your sex change operation to be bothered with your dear old high school buddies, send me an email as well. If you'd like to license me to make up my own circumstances for you, send me an email. Likely you will have last been seen wandering around the Orlando area in a bee costume, with what looked like Spam oozing out of the seams. When I asked you if you were okay, or if you were coming to the reunion, you slapped me with a tree branch and told me to get that damn dog back into the freezer. Then you pummeled my kidneys with swift roundhouse kicks. When I was bloodied and helpless on the sidewalk, you climbed into a shopping cart and rolled down the nearest hill, into the darkness.
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