This is my literary yawn...
As I try to shake the phantasmal images of imagined seduction from my memory,
I figured I would go ahead and let the world know, I have officially awakened
from my winter slumber.� The hibernation of the Hotcarl is complete.�
Hide the women and children.� I feel fresh and revived, ready to give the
gift of my uncanny ability to relate feces, sex, and gym socks back to the world
from which it was inspired.
I know you've missed me, for I have missed myself.� I asked me out for
drinks the other day, but I wasn't going to be seen at some bar with me.�
What do I look desperate or something.� I mean come on.� Why would I
need to go out with me, when I have myself to come home to.� At least I
knew I would never leave me. Huh?� Don't ask.� I think I am feeling
loopy because I just devoured a full bottle of Flintstone Vitamins looking for a
Black Betty, BAM-BA-LAM.
I've been thinking about starting a website that I can post digital photos of
the license plates of people that drive too slow or too fast or just generally
piss me off on my commute to and from work.� I think it's a good idea, but
to make the idea fully come to fruition I will need a legion of dedicated
followers who are willing to infer from my postings that I would like them to
find and kill these poorly skilled operators of motor vehicles.
To start gathering that faithful flock, with which I intend to exert my will
upon the unsuspecting, I will start the Church of Hotcarl.� As an ordained
minister, I already have the legal ability to rightoff all costs associated with
the fulfilling of my perverse fixation of death.� Now I just need some
choir boys...� To light candles, you sick bastages.
Okay, I am now sufficiently bored, this entry had nothing of importance and
lacks the funny so I am done.� Wait for it, wait for it, here it comes...
Have fun,
j.
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