Books Are For Pussies. I Only Ever Read PalmsPosted: December 3, 2015 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: counterculture, Humour, writing 1 Comment
I need to eat more Arabic food.
I’ve a feeling, and I’m referring to all the Arabic food amongst us now and that is reading this, that you’re coming to get me and so I should likely pounce first.
And having pounced, dice myself up some tobacco of the gloopiest nature (gloopy as though I’ve pleased it) and then shisha smoke the good riddance out of it.
That, my friends, is how you make an enemy, and that, my friends, is the best way to think of your food.
Pounced upon and so stirring in action that it requires a pipe of shisha to follow.
The fork and spoon, all I ever need for most routes in life (whip them out suddenly; you’ll get a good measure on people by seeing how they react), are my table top buddies and we delve deeper into the Arabic food that taunts us so deliciously.
We should regard the existence of a pleasant and tempting smell for what it is…you’re putting something up my nostrils for your own benefit and I’d like to purr a “thank you” for this.
Insertion is a fact of life, whether it be nasal or a more pleasing fact of life.
To Arabic cuisine…I’m coming for you. Via insertion.
To the fork and the spoon…be there for me.
To the girl…watch how eagerly I rip off a table leg to defend your honour and boyfriend. I’ll always protect your boyfriend. Largely because you’re my girlfriend. Plus I like him.
I read the menu in French, no matter its being an Arabic. I don’t speak French anyway, although my French accent is second to none (aside from the Belgians).
If I read the menu at all. I don’t tend to read words.
Books are for pussies. I only ever read palms now owing to the tendency for the reading material to be somewhat more impulsive in a way books never seem to be, as they watch me pass back and forth from the shelf.
Belly dancing, more of a habit than a hobby of mine (it keeps seeming to crop up and solve dilemas for me), shall be plentiful and prominent.
Books don’t belly dance, and I’ll only enjoy a brief rest until they do.
I can do anything now; I have well inserted Arabic food well inserted.
Not to mention the gloopy tobacco.
I cannot wait to do all the things I am going to do to Arabic food very soon.
I’m going to make books impulsive.
Like a hand.
I have no idea what just happened, but I feel like there was life before reading this post, and life after reading this post. I’ll never be the same again.