Entrails

Bat most Silver, Bat most vile,

The title of this post is Entrails.

I begin with a line of laughter (which, contrary to popular belief, cannot be prescribed by any physician as an adequate pharmaceutical for any known disease): HahahahahahahahahaAAAAAAAHahahahahahahahahahahahahaheeheeheeheeheeheeheeheeheehohohohohohohoHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhahahaha!

What's so funny? This is the question that you are asking. The answer that I am giving is as follows: So, oh so many things.

I rode my bike today for the first time in months and my heart is dangling by a sinew from the tip of my lowest rib, dangerously close to scraping the floor and picking up some dirt, because we neglect our mopping, don't we roommates?

YES! They say. YES!

A poem:

Rancid candy on my tongue.
Let this song remain unsung.

I would have written the other seventeen stanzas but this post is getting disgusting.

I am suddenly light-headed. Are you? It's hurly-chucks time, I do declare! Will continue after the hurling.

The hurling...THE HURLING! Nothing, sadly, came of it. I am as full of half-digested beef as ever and continue to feel ill. But perhaps in five minutes time I shall feel it calling me again...

There is no time, not any, to waste!

A story!

Elsie was young again, but she knew it could not last. She ran to the bathroom to wash her hands. She loved the feel of her young skin being clean. But as she scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and lathered and scrubbed and scrubbed, her youthful skin tore away to reveal rusted pipes underneath.

"How odd!" she exclaimed, "That is the exact place where my bones once were."

For you see, Elsie was a robot, programmed with the memories of human Elsie. But the man who created her to replace his dead wife (very corpsey, that one) was displeased with this replica and so he snuck up behind her as she marveled at her leaden hands and bashed her over the head with the blunt side of an axe.

THE END


 Or is it?

YES!

Must hurl. Goodbye.

CL