M (Also known as Dr.T, praise be unto him) has trouble sleeping. Every time he rolls into another position, he feels for a moment that it is cool enough to help him drift into sleep, only to find himself thinking about a hundred vagaries after a few minutes. The vicious cycle of more thought thrown in to sedate all thoughts leads him down the slippery slope of restless frustration.
Outside, the cold fog rolls in from the ocean, a wispy mist that soon turns into a thick soup.
Ms thoughts flit between his wealth, his toe, and the impermanence of crispy fried chicken.
M's Insignificant aide (Ia, woe unto him and his ignorant lot) opens the door a crack, and after a brief pause, whispers
Ia: Lunch is served sire.
M: What the f**k have you been smoking, you two-pence whore?!! Lunch? Do you know what time it is? Its three f**king twenty in the AM!! Now begone before I slam that door on your stupid head.
Ia: Does that mean you will not be eating, O esteemed leader?
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
That's quite funny
Post a Comment