is_there_a_macaroni_3334333_caveman_cycle paste! in a park full of cosmopolitan chain smokers, the walrus came through, brisk whiskers standing guard, as if a realignment of Bruce Lee's maniacal disregard for Cheerios was never an issue, of the nostrils, and just started taking names on a snippet of handmade walrus_papyrus in a language called WALROTEXT. none of the hoverers second-guessed the task; that's standard in an age of disregard. the walrus just kept going from person to person, asking their names and offering free samples of chocolate-covered scepter-shaped bacon lozenges for the vascular, for the mind, for the impulse of avoiding hatgear or whatever head covership of choice. what the hell was i talking about? walrus. yeah, it figured out that it needed to find a bus to get away from all that madness of taking down names in WALROTEXT, it needed to find some sand next to some water with some gulls flying overhead to take away that constant aggravation of not knowing what the fuck else to do. oh to be a free walrus with the simple daily of catching fish, having sex, bathing in the sun, swimming in the water. 021101 what's it to you? who go blather from