Dear Diarrhea,
Today was a thursday until i checked the mail and realized it wasn't.The faint sound of electric teeth chattered in the envelope you sent.
I appreciate your interest in my paintings and i would love to display them on your kitchen floor. Yes of course i'll pay you for the trouble of having to walk around them, and yes i agree that art can get in the way of very important chores.
i myself have had plenty to do around here with dodging my friend's advice
and scratching my name off of police citations. Thank Gog that judge was a retard and didn't notice me stabbing my defense attorney.
All in all i've learned my lesson... a bird in the bush is worthless.When i went down to meet that talent scout at the coffee house, he handed me a live grenade and told me it would be a big hit. i couldn't help but notice a fight breaking out in the kitchen. i guess the head chef really wanted to be a playwrite and was fed up with making everybody's sandwiches.
The dishwasher (who wanted to own his own record contract) was sick of the head chef bossin him around. Food was flying out the swinging doors along with knives and song lyrics. Just then the talent scout took his latte and shoved it at the chef. He said "sign here" and pulled down his pants
The chef turned five shades of red-yellow, ripped off his own arm and started to beat the dishwasher with it.
The clerck, the barista, the janitor and the manager all hid behind a picture of Chris Martin. i did an impression of a plane crash and got out of there.
The sun was gay and sinking into a puddle a pastel chalk.
i got home and kicked the cops off of my property. i locked my door and slammed my head in the fridge. i swear i'll write you and send you all the money i owe. i'll keep you posted on making it big. i turn 43 next year and i'm pretty sure it's only a matter of time!
Your smelly foot, -Rigamortis
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