Talk about your mornings of the damned. Out there in nature with the trees and stuff. The dogs like it because their tiny brains don't register the lack of entertainment modalities. They cavort. We're a better sulker than cavorter. We're definitely the distant offspring of some guy who, when confronted with the vast woodlands of America, experienced a sinking feeling. Not a transcendentalist, this guy. His heart belonged to a parking lot. He thought, "Where are the inns and the lights and the cheap prostitutes of Old Europe? Where is its hearth and cobblestone streets? Where are the hussies?" We see a rude path and dream of superhighways, deforestation, vast housing tracts with satellite dishes. We feel bad for that ancestor who wanted only a better life, not a wildlife documentary. He did not come to America to guest star in a lifelong episode of Grizzly Adams. He resented the dark forests, thrumming with alien life, the lush pastures that produced nothing he could buy in a plastic bag, the lack of 7-11s. He was trapped in a twilight world of giant trees and hostile flowers and Henry David Thoreau. He was fucked, and this morning, so were we.
nothing could be finer that to be her vagina in the morning....
Posted by: wi11iam13 | November 11, 2006 at 06:10 PM
Excellent.
Posted by: Rod F. | November 11, 2006 at 06:16 PM
Wi11iam, you are lowering. And we love you for it. Thank you, Rod F.!
Posted by: Unremitting Failure | November 11, 2006 at 06:56 PM