stuttgart cowboy-child he was shackled to the cubic zirconium mine. worse than that, he didn't even know what diamonds are. the toaster ovens didn't seem to cover it. but he knew he'd live to be 400. said cheer up my sweet, our 50th is the high five anniversary, but secretly wanted an island. that back shrunk to degrees, not so much like a protractor, but like a game of go between two beginners, real simple movements some egghead could make too much out of if you gave them faith in words. every morning there'd be a faulty fire alarm, and the holy water sprinklers would turn on. movements were measured by the crude apprentices, the well-tempered clavier, the chicken soup authors. the cafeteria was run by a gary larson devil who served half squirming bits who came from broken homes anyways. mercy killings abounded in that cafeteria. on thursdays they were delicious. most people thought bobo bobington had worked there forever. they called him old halibut because he walked around like he had a hook in his mouth all day. he was studying examples of theoanthropism in commerce in his spare time, like a beached whale holding a shell up to its ear to hear the ocean. there were times he worried everyone. like when his legs moved like a spiders. but all they really cared about were metaphors like cubic zurconium, because fraternization was hackneyed and assumptious. 021030 what's it to you? who go blather from