Monday, December 15, 2014
The gruel of the festive season is upon me.
I’m not kidding: it actually is.
So mucusbound have the other inhabitants of Whirl Towers become that even the spray of their infrequent animatory effuse is as poison.
So I’ve taken to my bed with a sausage sandwich, the better to be better off than Scrooge at this stage of the game, at least.
I happen to like sausages.
They are lifebouys of phallusness afloat in a gruel sea of uninviting mucusy nostrilations of oblivion.