Either postural tachycardia or equine dentistry--
--is what I'm researching next. I just got done explaining why I was unable to find much of a job market for an ex crack addict with sub-par Japanese language skills to perform Japanese translation in his home.
Today's book recommendation, as if you care, is Carter Beats the Devil. It's well-written and it's about a stage magician in the very early 20th Century! A freakin stage magican! And he's beating the Devil! I don't know why I ever gave up my ambition to be a stage magician. I blame it on Harry Blackstone.
Blackstone, you fucker!
Blackstone!
That's what I'll yell right before I die. I hope I'm in a hospital, and it's three am. Some old man will walker his way over to see if I'm okay and I will rear back, will brandish my IV stand like a Clovis spear, and will run him through. And then I'll collapse forward, sated and dead.
. . .
In less interesting but weirder news, imagine this:
You're eating lunch at a hospital cafeteria. Your boss is off in the corner, which pisses you off no end, because you're only supposed to get a half hour lunch and now she'll know you're here, and will know when your half hour is up, because she's already been here a half hour herself and actually something like 45 minutes, chat chat chatting with one of her buddies, and will continue to be here for much longer while you rush food to your mouth and then march out of here—
But anyway, the fucking incessant drone of hurricane news streams out of the TV in the corner, the patrons bumble around with their trays, and you're trying to read a hardback while also trying to shovel steamed vegetables and a black bean burger into your mouth. And somewhere about fifteen feet away, for about four pages straight, some old woman will not stop muttering, in the confused and unaware and mournful way of the mentally fucked—
"The buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . The buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . The buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . The buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . The buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . ."
Today's book recommendation, as if you care, is Carter Beats the Devil. It's well-written and it's about a stage magician in the very early 20th Century! A freakin stage magican! And he's beating the Devil! I don't know why I ever gave up my ambition to be a stage magician. I blame it on Harry Blackstone.
Blackstone, you fucker!
Blackstone!
That's what I'll yell right before I die. I hope I'm in a hospital, and it's three am. Some old man will walker his way over to see if I'm okay and I will rear back, will brandish my IV stand like a Clovis spear, and will run him through. And then I'll collapse forward, sated and dead.
. . .
In less interesting but weirder news, imagine this:
You're eating lunch at a hospital cafeteria. Your boss is off in the corner, which pisses you off no end, because you're only supposed to get a half hour lunch and now she'll know you're here, and will know when your half hour is up, because she's already been here a half hour herself and actually something like 45 minutes, chat chat chatting with one of her buddies, and will continue to be here for much longer while you rush food to your mouth and then march out of here—
But anyway, the fucking incessant drone of hurricane news streams out of the TV in the corner, the patrons bumble around with their trays, and you're trying to read a hardback while also trying to shovel steamed vegetables and a black bean burger into your mouth. And somewhere about fifteen feet away, for about four pages straight, some old woman will not stop muttering, in the confused and unaware and mournful way of the mentally fucked—
"The buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . The buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . The buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . The buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . The buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . . the buck stops here . . ."
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