Posts Tagged ‘goldrush!’

Dinosaur nutrition

Wednesday, 20 February 2008

No one planned this.  I got no advance word so I’m using what’s left around here.  Somewhere there’s
an older scientist, bitter because he remembers when the internet was just a few computers in college labs and he knew everyone on it. Someone would type FU under the guise of Photon Guy_234 and he would furiously type back, ‘I know that’s you, Penthorpe.  Cut the crap.” 

Now the internet is too huge just like the sky and only God knows the hows or the whys.  For every saint in His arsenal there are 232,441
websites devoted to each fetish.

Hey, teen suicide is up.  I don’t blame them.  Most days I’m sorry I missed that bus.  Here’s a quote from a
concerned brainologist:

“It’s very significant. Anybody that dies is very important.  So it’s a question of … is this a regional effect, is this a reporting effect, is this a trend
… or is it not?”

– Shannon Croft, M.D., Psychiatrist (a dude)

“After a decade of decline, the Centers for Disease Control reports, teenage suicide rates are up. What do
these numbers mean?”

It means that life is the same dragon it was 5000 years ago and we’re all meat on the sticks of our bones.

“Anybody that dies is very important.” 
How does it feel to say that and pretend to mean it?  Are you
including the scum on death row?  Child rapists?  Important for what?  Dinosaur nutrition?
It’s clear that no one else is going to give you a reason to live; hold out your hands like a bowl then
turn them down.  Grab a hat and cane.

Last night I awoke an instant ahead of the pain.  The center of my right calf felt like it had been thwacked with a pickaxe wielded by a California goldrush miner from the year 1855 (he’d gained experience).  What do they call that, a charley horse?  Don’t you have to be awake and doing something to get one of those?  I’m killing myself in my sleep now too?  Questions all not-answered by waking up and limping around with a sore-as-hell-for-no-reason calf:  a charley calf.

I don’t want to be a cynic, but those optimists are so damned annoying it feels less foolish to be miserable.

Time for lunch and meds. 

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