Location: Chicago, Illinois, United States

Wednesday, August 30, 2006


I followed a shady-looking gentleman home. Actually, he was not a gentleman, but a fat fat a-fat bastard. Fats are the natural enemy of the short, only partially because they wear us in wintertime. But we share so much. We say, "Well, at least I'm not..."

I am a short, and thus frightened by quick movement. We shorts tend to hate the gods, as the gods are tall and ripped, but tend to love anyone who pays attention to us: A Beautiful Woman gets, "Here i am here i am i am your oh oh you have a boyfriend but he can't do things i can do things i can do tricks but not if you don't want me to i respect the no!"

The short like grassroots campaigns and equal salaries and plants. When faced with a choice, we will defer to a respected regular person with the idea that we will sneak in and modify the choice, unnoticed, and over time, amass clout, a height substitute. We know that the tall, bodily, have so much area to defend, leaving brains.

Both the short and the fat are lovely. The shorts should desire the fats and vice-versa. We could control a lot.


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