Musings on vinegar, vigor, and elephant bites
Murderized on August 4, 2024.
A conundrum faced me on Monday: My belt is apparently shorter when I wear it with the buckle on the left and longer when it’s on the right. At least this conundrum wasn’t one of those nameless, faceless ones however. I wondered if they made perfectly symmetrical belts. That would get around this whole issue—and mercifully lack all those problems that Möbius belt had caused me back in ’23.
I also learned the hard way that my razor does not work in zero gravity.
Becasue told me on Tuesday that men are from Mars and women are from Venus. But Venus flytraps are from Sheboygan and plantains are from Corinth. I’ve always wanted some delicious Corinthian plantains. That Corinthian leather I ate once was far from delectable—however, naugahyde from authentic naugas makes both excellent clothing and a delicious snack.
Tuesday afternoon found me full of piss and vinegar. Full of vim and vigor. Even totally full of shit. And then, like a tamping iron to the skull, it hit me: Why do noses run, but feet smell?
On Wednesday I suffered a flossing accident that left me a few teeth short. I surmised that was better than being long in the tooth, but I really wanted to know whose teeth these were, and how I ended up with them.
Thursday blundered in. The minutery of this day’s matutinal noshing overwhelmed me. A man far smarter than I (and there are so many) once told me that to tackle a large problem, break it down into smaller parts. Now my breakfast was broken—broken down into individual crumbs and particles so minute I could never hope to eat them all. A man far smarter than that man once told me, you eat a hamburger one bite at a time and you eat an elephant… one bite at a time. So I found an elephant and ate that for breakfast instead. (One bite at a time.)
On Friday, I sent this letter to a local newspaper:
I’ll kill anyone who tries to stop me!
I’ll rip his ear off and both his tongues out!
I’ll tear his eyeballs out and throttle him with his own optic nerves!
I’ll murderize him!
I’ll even murdelize him!
It was the perfect missive—highly specific and hopelessly ambiguous at the same time. Stop me from doing what? Blogging? Breathing? Bloviating breathlessly? It wouldn’t bedazzle ’em with brilliance, but it would baffle ’em with bullshit. And it made one thing perfectly clear: Try to stop me and you better have a spare set of body parts.
Saturday rolled around in the mud like the pig that it was. I entertained myself with a new hobby: Ripping Chesterton’s fenceposts out of the ground and hurling them at Overton’s windows. And then, like the forf it was, it hit me: If the opposite of “finger-licking good” is “toe-sucking evil,” does this mean Quentin Tarantino is the anti–Colonel Sanders?
I was still eating that elephant come Sunday morning.