retarded hamsters.
sticky bee sez:
dear filthy-trousers,
quit the charade. i know your pants were simply filthy and dirty and full of booze stains. i'm not buying this fancy 'painted in italy' stuff. not for one minute. you know, i started reading it and i was sure that it was going to turn out that the demon pup had chewed yet another hole through the crotch of your pants and your big boss was the first to point it out. that would have been classic. i remember you having 4 pairs of crotchless, dog-chewed pants. ahh, the beulah. quite a rat-scallion, that one. even your dog is a crotch perve (just like your dad).
great article. although it didn't give me any tips for making myself happier. i enjoy the structure of a job, yes. but i also fully enjoy the non-structure of writing you inanities all day in some hipster coffee shop. my area is full of hipsters. they're useless, aren't they? that hair. the ubiquitous hipster hair. i'm glad we don't have to worry about being that cool, spanks. i'm glad that you wear crotchless dirty trousers and have trouble with social greetings and i occasionally wear sunglasses without noticing a lense is missing. hipsters we are not.
i haven't fallen or made a complete ass of myself in awhile now. seems i'm due for a fall up the stairs or some kind of social disgrace. maybe i'll fall on the bus face-first into a face-full of bus-person lap. yeeeeikes. or an incident on the treadmill. i'm always mildly surprised and impressed with myself when i get off the treadmill each time without having flown off the back of it, crashing into the stationary bikes behind. way to go, i think. terrific job.
god those things are all so effing ridiculous. as i zone out on the 'stair climber' or the treadmill i always think about what jackasses we are to pay money for a machine that mimics stairs (stairs are generally cost-free, you know) or a spinning piece of rubber that allows me to run in one g-d spot like a huge, balding, fleshy retarded hamster who occasionally falls off the back of it.
i'm going to a hipster coffee place now to watch the hipsters shuffle around with their macs blowing that piece of hair from their eyes.
wash your pants,
sticky bee
dear filthy-trousers,
quit the charade. i know your pants were simply filthy and dirty and full of booze stains. i'm not buying this fancy 'painted in italy' stuff. not for one minute. you know, i started reading it and i was sure that it was going to turn out that the demon pup had chewed yet another hole through the crotch of your pants and your big boss was the first to point it out. that would have been classic. i remember you having 4 pairs of crotchless, dog-chewed pants. ahh, the beulah. quite a rat-scallion, that one. even your dog is a crotch perve (just like your dad).
great article. although it didn't give me any tips for making myself happier. i enjoy the structure of a job, yes. but i also fully enjoy the non-structure of writing you inanities all day in some hipster coffee shop. my area is full of hipsters. they're useless, aren't they? that hair. the ubiquitous hipster hair. i'm glad we don't have to worry about being that cool, spanks. i'm glad that you wear crotchless dirty trousers and have trouble with social greetings and i occasionally wear sunglasses without noticing a lense is missing. hipsters we are not.
i haven't fallen or made a complete ass of myself in awhile now. seems i'm due for a fall up the stairs or some kind of social disgrace. maybe i'll fall on the bus face-first into a face-full of bus-person lap. yeeeeikes. or an incident on the treadmill. i'm always mildly surprised and impressed with myself when i get off the treadmill each time without having flown off the back of it, crashing into the stationary bikes behind. way to go, i think. terrific job.
god those things are all so effing ridiculous. as i zone out on the 'stair climber' or the treadmill i always think about what jackasses we are to pay money for a machine that mimics stairs (stairs are generally cost-free, you know) or a spinning piece of rubber that allows me to run in one g-d spot like a huge, balding, fleshy retarded hamster who occasionally falls off the back of it.
i'm going to a hipster coffee place now to watch the hipsters shuffle around with their macs blowing that piece of hair from their eyes.
wash your pants,
sticky bee
posted by Sticky & Spanky at 7:59 PM
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