write me, my dog (writememydog) wrote,
write me, my dog

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There's nothing like almost dying. Absolutely nothing like it in the world. I believe, in fact, that it is only when I am close to death that I actually feel alive. Ask Mr. Danger about this, everyone else is afraid to verify anything I say; afraid it'll kill them, I suppose. And it very well might! Gerbils don't grow on trees, you know. Verify that! Oh God, I need a gun so I can almost shoot myself.
Apparently, in the brief interval since my last post (brief being entirely relative, you understand) we have gained a fan by the name of "The Unabomber". Now, I ask you, ladies and gentlemen who are foolish enough to give a damn, why me? Of all the people in the world, the Unabomber chooses to admire Mr. Danger and I's prophetic hilarity. Why couldn't I have attracted Mr. T, or Elmo, or a Republican midget that looks like Al Gore but with no legs? Ah, but on a serious note (how rare is that?) the Unabomber is a very funny man...however, so is an 27 pound mole growing off the side of your mother's ass, which could be very serious indeed. As a matter of fact, you MIGHT want to have that checked out.
It strikes me as strange that I never bother to edit these god forsaken posts. I look up and I see so much backwoods silliness that I want to pluck out all my nose hair and feed it to a stray cat, but I never bother to delete anything I write. Shakespeare did the same thing, said he could afford it. Never scratched a line, the bastard. And somehow I don't think it was because he was afraid to. I believe he was just too lazy to bother with editing. Once something is written, rewriting it is worse than eating a rotting blowfish. Oh fuck it, I'm sick of thinking. Don't do much of that any how. Over and out.

Sublimely Dirt,
Dr. Evil
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