So I’m lying there last night, my stomach once again struggling nobly, but ultimately futilely to turn sandwiches into poop, when it makes a sound that is quite clearly, “war on owls.”
It’s soft, but distinct. It continues on to insist: “War….on owls!”
Then a brief moment of silence before:
“WAR! ON! OWLS!”
Listen, y’know, whatever you say stomach, I guess. Really, fuck predatory birds anyway, but isn’t there an easier way to get sustenance than negotiating with a muscle bag filled with acid that hates raptors?
I wish I could switch to Chlorophyll and get my energy from the sun, but alas I am pastier than English pub fare and would be perpetually sunburned. Isn’t there some way to feed off of something that I’m good at absorbing, like dark beer, the scorn of loved ones, or rock n’ roll?
Jesus, that is a brilliant idea. I could say things like “I eat rock n fucking roll and shit nu-metal! I belch guitar solos and fart power-chords! MY TEETH ARE AMPLIFIERS WAAAAAAA!!”
Oh shit, you guys, I think I accidentally just made a bumper sticker for Brett Michaels. Does anybody have his number?
Jesus, did I really just spend twenty minutes writing this? I…uh…I’m going to go climb a mountain or something, so that I have something worthwhile to tell my grandchildren.