Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Pants On Fire
I decided to share my creative writing project with a couple friends. About a week ago I started posting my recent rambles onto our mutual mailing list.
Now they are all chasing me with rope, pitchforks, and torches. If you see any spelling errors, blame them on me for typing while running. (TWR) I'm a big fan of hyperbole, while they're big fans of peace, love, unity, and respect. (PLUR) It seems I've peed on the disco ball and pooped on the turntables. I have committed a grave sin by declaring dancers to be epileptics. They are, in fact, people "expressing themselves" and "getting down and having a time, yo." So I'm a big asshole for failing to do the whole ritalin victim thing and having the gall to mention it in public.
Hold it, wait a second. I thought I was the uptight guy. Reflecting back, it's not I. It is they that are taking themselves too seriously. In fact, I'm quick to skewer myself. I'll douse myself in gasoline and let people throw matches if I think they'll enjoy it. That's one way to get me dancing.
So, ravers and clubbers, I call upon you to thicken your hides. Don't be so sensitive about the ways you have fun. I'm not attacking you. I'm just having fun in my own sarcastic way. Keep up the do-si-dos and the pirouettes and I'll keep making ridiculous pronouncements.
Get mad at the government, not me. I can't hurt you.
4:24 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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