Quality Shmoment

Perform felatio on the cab driver.
It's Friday.

You don't need a rotational feather duster with 360 degree capabilities to dust your home.
Just use a fucking rag.
Or the ol' wedding veil.
Might as well put that to some use.

I'm not certain that I'd necessarily call myself a cynical individual.
Miserable, sure.
Aggravated as well.
Surly when I'm drunk.
But not cynical.
However, I did duck my head into the MUN bookstore yesterday for the sole purpose of laughing at the shmos in line.
I searched for the word shmo because I wanted to see if I was spelling it properly.
Just goes to show you that you never know when you might stumble upon molecular theory.
At times when a university campus is fat with new wetbacks, I can't help but think.
One day I'll be giving little Paul Junior his special talk as he leaves for college
(Provided he passes remedial math).
I already know the advice I'm going to give him.
It's the same advice that my father gave me:
You don't really need to spend that much time on the nipples.
Just poke and prod at them for a moment.
And move on.
Because I do want kids. I do.
I have a lot of sprees still in me.
And I'm going to need someone to point at in the courtroom.
I'm going to need a spare set of finger prints.
On that. Here's the music of a guilty man.
If being wicked is a crime.



Alright.
I've gotta go.
Sarah Turpin just showed up.
With the following news:
"I bought a daily planner. So I'm going to be organized.
I don't know where it is, though. I think I left it in Wal-Mart."
She's a catch.
Like influenza.
Are you all still at work?
Put in minimal effort for the rest of the afternoon.
For me.