Archive
05/28/10
Friday-Night Space Flight
Oozing, transmogrifying at an odoriferous "sports bar," I record inane, insane, profane vocalizations. That I don't know, let alone recognize, a single breather, Solitary specimen of Homo sapiens, in this black hole, Is perfectly computable, to my algorithmic receptors, Since my Q4-PF mainframe finds it cosmically obvious That I'm the alien in this terrestrial desolation,
A one-pod reconnaissance team from Drontian ∑≠ÅÜ, Whose mission is to tap into the strange "brain" Of the ultra-hyperinferior strain of virus dubbed "mankind." All I'll really have to do, it seems, Is order "Macho Guacamole Nachos," "a bucket of Bud Light," Get "blitzed," "blotto," "snockered," "shit-faced," And slur, "NASDAQ," "Fuck," "NASCAR," and "nigger."
05/28/10
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