|
so i was scramblin' 'bout lizzardule when me pancreas gave out. the season being that of pine noses, i was facing an acute sensation pertaining to the number of pigeons currently roosting on the lourve. elves obligated me to explain myself to the vending machines; i kind of felt bad for the poor bastards anyways. who was lord kelvin to krpppt? in any case, the aforementioned acute sensation was causing discrete shifts in my tangibility matrix. i'd properly calibrated column A2 the previous night, but now it was coming rather unwound. i stroked the tuning peg gently and called it pet names. i concentrated on the image of a hip flask, lit a match, and that was all she wrote -- the hippo was robotic. little man inside working it. you never know when wildlife is really robotic. more to come when it comes.
|
