first time I tried to build one of these fuckers was probably the twentieth
time I got stoned. I don't remember much. I had cottonmouth like a cave
man. I was hanging out at the rec center playing some bumper pool when
a hobo dwarf slipped me some heroin. He said, "Hide these in your
backpack. I'll be back for them in a couple hours."
After a couple bong loads behind the raquetball courts,
I remembered the heroin. I thought it would be a good idea to test it
on myself, to see if dwarf tolerance is better than mine. After a few
shots, I felt like a tranquelized gorilla.
I ended up re-living
third grade for about a week. I remember someone being a ball-monitor
and I thought how boring it must be to hang out in the ball room. Then
I remembered that smell that used to come out of that place. That burning
plastic smell that used to come out of there. Those bastards were smoking
DMT in there. Why not? They had nothing to be afraid of. No lunch ladies
puttin the hammer down. Making you stand in a circle. "Get off those
monkey bars you little piece of fucking shit!", they would scream.
My dream is to play tether ball with midgets. And my other dream would
be to get a to-scale tatoo of Herve Villechaize and have my pud be his
the closet flange to access the sanitary fitting, replace with a healthy
pinch of psychadelic mushrooms, and dab of plumbers diarrhea, charge
them $400 and you are out. A quick $400. Go get some hookers, maybe
buy a new fishing reel. Who knows?
My cousin knows Marty Stouffer, of Wild America
fame. He sold Marty a vial of crack. And Marty didn't have a crack pipe,
so Marty sold him one of those cheap tube ones. No wait. He sold Marty
one of those cheap tube ones.
When chickens are on speed they can communicate by brain waves,
much as a bat can see by radar. With these brain waves, they can actually
relay messages as detailed as "you greaseball chicken fucker, you
best not be wrapping me in duct tape".
Apparently we have
found a set of (I have serious stoner hunger right now since I didn't
eat dinner) rules to go by. A code of ethics so to speak. The plumber's
credo. More than once I have peeked into the plumber's handbook. Don't
over estmate these sly fuckers. (Holy shit that was a good meal.) The
best feeling is when you are trying to buy something on a credit card
and there is a huge line behind you and the cashier has to call in to
verify and you end up being declined and you try to make an excuse as
to why it didn't go through.
Reverend Speef Narkle