Selections from the Container
From a journal entry dated 12/30/98:
Meditations on a Lamp
What's with lamps? I don't understand why when you're drunk you have to act like one. And why is it called a lamp? It's not like you're plugging in a baby sheep. I think that the baby sheep would object to being plugged in, especially if the connection was rammed up its ass.
Not ass in the donkey sense, but rather The Colon's Cave, as I like to call it. And why is there a punctuation mark named after part of my lower intestine? Instead of two dots, it should be represented by a brown smear. That might be tough to convey on a typewriter though.
Typewriters remind me of my grandma's dentures. They both make the same sound, especially when my grandma coughs, and her dentures go skating across the floor. Usually she coughs because I've punched her in the stomach.
Note: I've since ceased making abuse of the elderly jokes, because, well, it's kind of real.
Labels: from the box