I get angry quite easily when people cut my toes off as I sleep. I know that
confrontation and shouting and confrontational shouting and shouting in a
confrontational manner don't help at all, I know that I should centre myself
and balance my karma. I hightail it to Mount Massanutten and sit atop with a
big bag of batteries. One for you, one for me. One rolled down the mountain,
one swallowed. One tumbling, snowballing or just falling and bursting, one
sitting, digested, bursting, or just passing straight through. Danger,
danger. It's my banging my head against a wall, it's my banging my head
against a nose (these two phrases really should be the other way around, but
you can see why I went with their current layout, right?) Angry. No point
shouting at relevant people, much better to run the risk of hurting myself
and people who happen to live at the bottom of a mountain.
I'm always told not to swallow batteries. I'm told that if they burst
they'll melt my stomach with their acid; sweety, my stomach is plenty acidic
already. I'm told they're alkaline batteries; sweety, I pump my stomach so
full of bicarb that it must be alkaline by now. If I listened to what people
told me I wouldn't sit atop a mountain swallowing some batteries and rolling
the others down. Just goes to prove you can listen to all of the people some
of the time, and some of the people all of the time, but you can't listen to
visions of Abraham Lincoln when he tells you not to swallow batteries and to
cut down on your intake of protein pills because you're growing an extra
nostril like sheep have. I swallow batteries and hang the consequences. Je
suis as 'ard as an animation.
Good ol' honest Abe tells me he has to go, but I shall be visited by a
further one figure from history, and he'll come bearing doornails to replace
those which went missing during those curious winter months that appeared
for a couple of days in the middle of last July. Culpability for the missing
doornails wasn't being admitted, this was just the kind act of someone who
wished to show himself to be a nice guy, contrary to the honest treatment
history had dished out to him. Ooh, who was it? Ooh big drama. Ooh ooh.
JEdHoov turned up, spoiling all my guessing fun. I hate that fucking fucker,
still, as he came into his hand he told me to get the doornails out of his
pocket, so I guess a modicum of forgiveness is called for.
JEdH up and flew me and my own bad self down to see the carnage that my
battery rolling was having - he may be a fat dead evil fuck, but he does
have bones like aerofoils. And that's supposed to convince me is it? Gushing
blood? Really painful bruises? Big melting snowballs with a battery in the
centre? Purrrrrrlease, give me some credit: I've killed men for giving me
less credit than that, so you're pretty lucky you gave me a little bit of
credit (well, doornails, but it's all good) otherwise I'd have killed you
again. Don't you fucking get it, Mr. Director? One for you, one for me. I
swallow a battery, I give you a battery. You scrub my back, my back gets
clean and I give you a bribe to spend on invading Cuba, or Jayef, Kentucky,
or wherever you hate. Don't you fucking get it Mr. Director? It's all about
the pun; it's all about being angry in a mountain range. Don't mean a thing.
It doesn't either, but I'm asking you, please, don't mean a thing. I'm
angry.