2006-07-31

It turns out that my brother did not crap a baby roach into a corner of my bedroom, as I previously asserted. You will be surprised to learn that it was in fact our Redeemer who crunchily pissed several roaches into the dark recesses of my walls, where they lay in wait for me. I was sitting at my desk, hard at work on an epic poem I am composing that seems to spend equal time on the subjects of Christ the King and draft animals, when I saw out of the corner of my eye a shining ambulatory turd making its prehistoric way across my living room. Usually I have no difficulty assassinating insects, but earlier that day I had taken one of my brother’s bodybuilding supplements for fun, one that claimed to increase blood flow and had accordingly turned my entire body into a trembling anticipatory boner that could not see straight out of its single boner eye to kill the intruder. After a long minute of helpless fumbling, I smashed it to death with a copy of The Miracle Minute I had on hand. It dispatched of him ably, so I would like to thank the author, Mr. Dick Warn—or, as I like to call him, Sir Penis No-No—for ensuring my safety.

What’s that you say? You’d like to know more about my current literary endeavor? I thought of calling it Jesus Horse, but ultimately decided that I am far too clever for anything so predictable: I’ll be using the title God-Shaped Foaling Hole instead.

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