Suddenly, cloning myself seems like a good idea.

[a_bit_of_wit_2]

A-spots, g-spots, dalmation spots, see Spot run, spots before your eyes, spotted lizards, eh. Right. Rambling on as per usual, we note. By we, I refer to my muses, who are all drowning in Jack and telling perverse jokes while listening to P.D.Q. Bach's "Dyverse Ayres on Sundrie Notions." Snuff, puff, Scruff McGruff, Macduff, sitting on your duff, I duffed your mom, eh. Hmm...interesting. More incessant ramblings of a caffeinated college student who's been exposed to the Roivas family, fighting Rufus Shinra and seeing the Masamune sticking out of a fat pudgy freak in a red coat, as visions of the Greasy Arches (registered trademark, copyright 2001, Brian J. Williams. All rights reserved.) dance in my mind. No animals were harmed in the making of your heart attack today, which no amount of Bayer aspirin can cure. Tits and ass, sadomasochism, bondage, fisting, felching, and necrophilia, all the sick things that make males spray their seed all over the place, howling with masculine delight as their women partners rub their prostates. Am I making sense? I'd like to think not. A puddle forms outside, its long, slender temporary tributaries all branching out toward the Gunk, reviving it. The trees are drawing me near, I've got to find out why. Those gentle voices I hear explain it all with a sigh. Shite! Bullocks, you bastard! Could someone remove Mr. Smithers from the chamber? Whee! Ahh, the joys of kettle-cooked chips while watching women in fishnet stockings strut their stuff, producing erections with every male they pass, providing the necessary fuel for masturbation to be held at night anon. Grinding to music with a person 1500 miles away, one wonders if all of this is real, and is faced with the same question as Sora: I've been having these weird thoughts lately....like any of this for real or not? It'll be the Duck-Lady of Baltimore who has her ducks lined in a row with that sexy trombone, while I watch the frilly panties run along with Aqualung. Who'll sick your duck for a dollar? Boom Boom Dollar? I don't know about you, but Oliver's Army is here to stay. Why? They're all at strip clubs. As a result, accidents will happen.

Y'all already know what happened, another day in the life of Brian, in the last post. So, we continue the day: from work to now, 2:24 AM. Work...was short. I got out half an hour early, giving me more time to shower, game, and chat online. Talked to Sarah online for the first time in almost a week, then we shifted to phone. During the course of the night, I learned something valuable. Never do laundry on a Sunday evening--the wait time for a washer is as long as a porn star's penis. Just ask the Mountie, he knows. However, when one is down to his last pair of underwear and socks, no jeans, then laundry must be done. After that, it was onto FF7, then a brief interesting chat with Rach, which brings me to you, fair denizens of New Paltz, who dwell in the environs of asbestos and other collective noxious material, who after reading this are gonna respond with a collective WTF? Yep. However, I am not on any type of drug, except caffeine and sugar, which at times causes a burst of WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE to fly off the keyboard. 2:30 AM. Holy shit, the time. I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date!

Random, isn't it?

Nighty night, all--or is it night? Morning? Day? The darkness comes...? Maybe. Raining out. Poopy.

This post brought to you by the method of coitus interruptus.