Filler feast (all-you-can-read buffet)

I’m like a bird that has been flying for days over the ocean, with no land in sight. Its wings are exhausted and it desperately needs to rest. Every moment it must decide between overexerting its strength to remain aloft, or submitting to fatigue and drowning in the depths. In other words, I’m living a normal life.

But I’m shocked that there’s no “Super Doctor U.S.A.” residing in “Freedom Forever, America” . . . Well, at least we still have Jesus.

To earn even a single genuine interaction on the public side of a blog is a big deal in today’s economy; so I appreciate all comments, and I’m glad that posting them proves easy once you get a couple of congressmen in your pocket.

“Know that after Freud’s death, he became Jehovah.”
—A quote from William Blake’s The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, swapping “Christ” for the F-word.

There’s no space between organs.

To be alive is to be inconsequential, because anyone consequential is always assassinated.

So bloody clay is Yahweh’s facsimile? I like this plot twist.

You should never worry that keeping a full deck of cards in your shirt’s front pocket will make you appear to be in possession of an eavesdropping device; for the mob will simply assume that it is a garage door’s remote opener.

(I applaud you for taking the fairy tale way too literally.)

If, after more than thirty bare years of life, you remain clueless about how children are formed in the womb, my company can help. Simply purchase a European adapter – that should take care of everything, whether human or physical.

The rumors are true, folks! Tonight’s murder will be accomplished by robot cheerleaders brandishing meat tenderizers. It’ll melt your mind!!

I used my decoder ring to translate the enigma; apparently it means: A purplish bubble containing the Great Pyramid of Giza will be visiting your upside-down bedroom this afternoon.

Another (semi-) satisfied customer.

I’m trying my best to keep you updated on my daily activities, because I can tell that you care – and I mean DEEPLY care – about all that I do.

Now I am going to walk down my neighborhood’s main street in half-light. Please pray to either Elmo or Jar Jar that my slaying appears fashionable to onlookers.

All I want is to be President of the Whole Wide World. . . . & for that, I need at least twelve votes.

Commenting on popular posts makes me feel like I’m in church.

When I chose its title, I was trying to write one of those headlines that you see on popular websites: they lure you to click through, but then their actual page is not even half as sensational as they made it sound. Additionally I was hoping to offend the virtuous.

The truth is disclosed in the reverse view from the lotion cam.

It means a lot to me that you enjoyed the way I died last night. But a large amount of credit goes to the gunman who shot me. Without ruthless gunmen, we murder victims would be out of a job. Anyway, thanks again . . . and sorry about the blood stain on the curb.

I really enjoyed typing this reply into your thumbnail image’s infinitesimal keyboard.

Navy + sale = savoir-faire?

This picture has 9,067,355 views. My goal is four.

Congratulations on successfully whipping a sharpened flashlight at the bullseye of the most challenging target in the Land of the Midnight Sun!

I never thought I’d meet another soul who enjoys playing whist at truck stops in Ybor.

We’ve got a classic here. Now all we need is a cult.

These insipidities automatically post on my public (x4) public (x3) public (x2) public Friendster account, but then I am always near a phone booth when the computer people decide to . . . Well, anyway, just trust someone numinous preferably. . . . —I’m luncheoning as I text this. . . . Sincerely, one large piece of cheese or bread.

I’m always on an old school laptop: this puts me in journalist-who-is-paid-by-the-word mode (which is similar to tame-beast mode).

We either frequent the same hypnotist or that wasn’t a dream.

It is good that you are suspicious about being misguided, because this proves that your critical faculties are operational.

Ah, yes, the disc in the image is as real as it gets. I plucked it off of my very own DVD tree; then I bribed a silvered glass to reflect its backside. And the second shot on the blog is its actual hole.

They should automate the sunrise. Unless they have done so already; in which case they should deactivate the sun and freeze its assets.

Someone’s prayers have been answered, I assume.

If people call you ‘crazy,’ just take a look at who is considered ‘sane.’

I am happy to hear that you touch fingers with your neurologist. My own neurologist is not yet ready to take our relationship to that level. But I will practice drawing some spirals and see if it helps.

Indeed, we are all tectonic plates.

Please feel free to type all four letters of “fuck,” without self-censoring. I love every single word in the English language, especially the ones that taste good.

SPOILER ALERT: Mr. Reed and Mr. Cale now constitute a single human being.

I misinterpret everything, by design.

When I encounter evidence that someone has checked back at a website via bookmarking, I know that I have witnessed a modern miracle.

All of the images that I share on this blog are actually photo-realistic oil paintings.

My readership consists entirely of espionage agents.

The robots of the world are welcome to embellish my diary however they please.

Most folks from the Screen Age don’t take a fancyin’ to text.

Now I’m embarrassed because I delivered that long speech about eschewing promotion only moments before you caught me committing self-advertisement.

My official uniform is a shirt that says Finickiest Internetter.

Things move slowly in the realm of newspaper publishing. It’s like seeing a firework explode in the distance, and then about five years later you hear its bang.

I’m all for harmonious coexistence; but a cosmic shake-up might bring forth better beings.

Re: “You need a vacation” —I’ll take that permanent one on the top shelf there . . . but I’m short on cash; allow me to put it on layaway.

It says here in the Rules of Life that not even a used car salesman is worse than an angel. But there’s an asterisk and some fine print explaining that this issue is still being debated, via hi-tech warfare.

That’s a beautifully anonymous comment, dear Samoht Esieh.

I assume that we are the result of the saurian cataclysm; that’s why it’s hard for me to cast my vote for salvation.

The sheet was right here all along! Double-you naked friends dot backslash undercover.

OMFG this is the best sermon I’ve ever slept thru.