Review: Smack

I got me some smack the other day. It was vigorous. My face is a sloppy mess now.

Finesse is not one of my children is what I tell myself. Were I not so loud and schizophrenic or quiet and hard to lay, as the case may sometimes be, this conviction would give me no trouble. However, trouble is what I've got. It sits in the tub with a downcast sort of attitude and asks me, with its puppy-like feet for eyes, "why do you despise these feet I have for eyes?"

I cannot bring myself to respond. But, sooner or later, I must respond. Trouble, left alone, will not go away. It will get worse and seek the trouble-maker out. Knowing my penchant for bathing, it knew exactly where to find me. I had made a mess of things. Unbeknownst to me, this mess became the trouble that now kept me from my relaxation. Somewhere, the smack must have been involved.

It displeases my toast to find itself unlubricated by the jam that I now find myself in. Sticky yet sickeningly sweet, the stuff that would have my present condition preserved begins to suffocate me. Though I'm in no position to give a toast, I have all the terrible puns a man could want. That said, I've no trouble meeting my maker, so long as I may believe that I, myself, am not trouble.

It is somewhere at this point in the story that I was smacked. The sobering hand of the humorless is often what saves the reader (you may rest at ease) from the litany of puns and miscarriages--claiming to be smiles--that befoul the air about the speaker stating such lines as these.

Review: A Review

Rather than miring myself in the smotherings of a another clumsy pillowfight with That-Which-Tries-To-Kill-Me-In-My-Sleep, I thought it best to review a review for a change. Meta-commentary is an obnoxious thing, as are things too fashionably post-modern for them to truly be post-modern, so I'll just end this sentence right now.

The post-modern post, modern in its ability to actually be interpretted, is no more post-modern a post th(a/e)n it is modern.

smut.--->> 8-D

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Review: The Empty Promise of Foie Gras

To deepen my understanding of emptiness, I took upon myself the reviewing of this promise.

To say it is being held like a carrot in front of me is to overestimate my enthusiasm for carrots and to insult me in the loins.

I know I'm being manipulated. It is inherent to promises that this must be so. Foie gras... I cannot say. I can't believe it, but even if I could, it wouldn't matter. I would still be speechless.

Smugly, in the corner of my eye, drifting between the shadows as so often these familiar hallucinations daily do, that elusive spectre of gratification beckons me on. What otherwise might have been meaningless and empty flirtations with the confabulatory frame of mind are now focused and clarified, distilled into a concentrated obsession. It is a paranoia brought about by a promise whose emptiness I cannot comprehend but for the fullness of even the slightest drop of its truth.

Was that foie gras scuttling across my desk just now? What about that fatty lump, lurking just outside my window? I hear a sucking sound. Oh foie! Don't be so coy! I feel that I am like the irrelevant leaf of paper that is tossed about on the breezes of the soft, gentle banter between a schoolgirl and her imaginary white elephants.

It is offal.

Review: A Kangaroo

To be frank, a kangaroo is little more than a wallaby wannabe.