BLAST-PHEME!

It was fairly cool inside the building at work, quite bearable. That did not mean that it was very busy, except for misguided individuals. We have a lot of those. They are a cross I have to bear. Did I ever indicate that I am not a particularly tolerant person? That was wrong.
It turns out I'm an absolute saint.


I should be proud of that. Which I'm not.
My feet hurt, which trumps everything.
My lower extremities are cursed.


In consequence I often wish to unleash poisonous bugs upon a collection of old men, whose only real offense is that they spew right wing horsepucky when my pedal appendages would rather not hear any of that. If my pedal appendages had their druthers, they would listen to charming accounts of pet weasels fighting pillows and fingers, and honey badgers figuring out how to break into the safe, and out of their pens. Plus hoppity birds like crows or budgies, and bearded lizards stealing socks. Fluffy cats after smelling opened cans of surströmming with expressions on their faces that say "why are you doing this to me, crazy biped, why are you introducing me to WMD's and biohazards?"


There were cans of surströmming hidden in Saddam's bunker. Fact.
He never got a chance to deploy them. It's very sad.

Saddam's treasured surströmming is probably in some way responsible for why my feet hurt. All of Marin County is surströmming, karmically speaking. Their spirituality has a deadly reek. Innocent children run screaming from it in Marin. Shakespearian actors gag on stage, very theatrically. Hippie earthmoms and lean bikers worship it. It's so naturall!
Surströmming is better for you than any number of vaccines.
Goes great with apple cider vinegar.


Fluffy cats avoid it.
Fastidiously.



Surströmming is the bagpipe music of canned fish.



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