Actually, fuck the team, none of those things are very much fun. Also, last week, I went into the bathroom and one of the people that works in advertising was just coming out of one of the stalls and I said "hi" and they said "hi" and I had a lot on my mind and I then used the same stall but when I opened the toilet seat there was a little biscuit floating around in there still and I can't be around that person without that event preoccupying me anyhow. I think I'll just do the sketches myself. Thumbing through my copies of "The Inferno" and listening to Joan Rivers read "The Bell Jar" on tape, it'll put me close enough to the other side of the Styx that, pretty much, the drugs and whores and booze can all go get fucked, innit?
My parakeet Marcus escaped this morning. This made me very sad, so I took a bath. I heard a pecking at the window a few hours later when I decided to get dressed to go shopping for razor blades, and it was Marcus. But he was seventy-five feet tall and was wearing a t-shirt that said "If you thought parakeets were green, wait until you see my enlarged gonads." Confused, I said "Marcus, what does your tee shirt mean?" He said "Fuck you, asshole, you're not the boss of me. Anyways, you tell me, what does your shirt mean?" And I said "it means what it says." And he said "what does it say?" and I showed him the tee shirt I was wearing which said "It says 'Fuck you, asshole, you're not the boss of me.'"
Then I said, "have you seen the back of my tee-shirt, Marcus?", and he said "No." I turned around so he could read the back, which says "If you have wings and you're wearing a tee-shirt, you cannot fly." Marcus stood, perplexed. It's funny, a seventy-five foot parakeet's expression of perplexosity is the same as in a parakeet only four inches tall.
The dictionary doesn't confirm that "perplexosity" is a word. But the dictionary is wrong. If the right word is "perplexion", and you're perplexed, you would use an acne cream to feel square about it all again, huh? That can't be right. The correct adjective is perplexosity.
That reminds me: The book Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand needs less sex and more giant parakeets. Especially every time Dagny Taggart gets her cooter fluffed afresh, which seems to happen every chapter in that book. Also to illustrate philosophical points. Like a monsterkeet pooping on a train track in New Mexico would pretty much condense forty pages into a paragraph. Ayn Rand was a tree-killer and produced more greenhouse gas than any other writer in history.
While Celine is giving birth to Le Enfant de Income Stream Nouveau, I want to hear and see Oompa-Loompas singing and dancing "I Want Candy" by Bow Wow Wow, I want neon and argon lasers, I want the best visual effects artists in the world, the guys who work for Pink Floyd and Rush. I'd also like to see Julio Inglesias skull-fuck Joan Rivers somewhere in the background, but I don't think that would play well in the latin countries, so fuck that idea. Only when the Oompa-Loompas are doing the episiotomy should the music change... to I dunno. This is where web comments and radio phone-in segments are useful. Call me at (877) 555-1515 to complete this paragraph. If you don't get me on the first try, keep dialing until I answer.
Maybe Marcus can make me some new t-shirts, like "I saw Celine's new baby before she did and it only cost $49.99" and "parakeets rule" and "parakeets rule especially when they are seventy-five feet tall and you try switching from seeds to krill and see if that doesn't fuck you square."
Don't forget, boys. If your date can spell "Chlamydia," she probably has it.
♫♫ I want candy... ♫♫