No actual water coolers were harmed in the creation of this story… Or were they? It’s not talking, but I thought it had a rather self-satisfied glow to it at the end of the story.
There’s a dirty diaper pressed against my nostril. I inhale.
The coffee’s full of snails. I drink.
For a brief glimmering moment, the computer tells me that Le Clown has posted something new. Scratch head. Must think of a clever comment to impress him. End up writing “yeah fuck yeah!” Clown does not seem impressed. Weebles, however, dances with glee and espouses about my mediocre brilliance. My morning is made.
On the way to work, I rap at the top of my lungs. An itch that has some weird venereal connotation almost runs me off the road. I stop the car. I get out. I scraaaatch. The fog is lifting off Canada-land. Home of the beavers. Home of Trent P. Lewin. That’s right, bitches. Trent P. Lewin. This is my hood, and I’m a mean motherfucking rapper yo.
At the Starbucks, I consider the nefarious practice of product…
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