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Sometimes if see a pair of siscors or a really large sharp knife - ya know laying out... I gotta stop my initial urge to chop of a digit. -- I don't touch the knife or pick up the siscors or anything ... it just crosses my mind -- so - naturally I go to -- what digit. -- Which one would I go with... and I always end up on a toe. -- I KNOW if I hacked a toe off I'd be fucked... but that's besides the point... that I don't really vaule my toes. Or at least one of them. That's just kinda sad.


Sometimes if I'm out at a bar and I notice by whichever unguided evil compells me... that I end up with someone elses lighter is in my pocket. -- Ya, I'm THAT guy... I suck. -- How bad? -- So bad that once I become aware of my infraction... I begin to pocket as many at that point in time as I possibly can... for the remainder of the evening... my single purpose in life is give my stolen loot - pocket buddies. -- I don't concentrait on conversations... I can barely maintain eye contact... I'm working your fucking bic - and it don't matter what you do... - it's going in my fucking pocket. -- I like to return the lighters at the end of the night - with a flourish.

One that says... HA-HA!!... this IS your lighter... and stealing it was my entertainment. I have no friends.


Sometimes if I'm making an omlete... I talk to it. -- "That's it bitch - bubba-up fo yo daddy... you gettin' a little bit firm? wha? huh? - dat's okay eggritto baby... I'm taking your cheesy filled vulva to Denver... SHALLOTS!!"


Sometimes when I'm checking out at the grocery... and say I have an enormously large cartfull... while my grocery total mounts... I try to - as fast as I possibly can -- like it's a race... fill out ALL possilbe pre-total information I can manage on the check - until all feilds are full... then - by reward... I drop my pen - and use both hands - thumb and index - to tune in my bubble gum pink nipple radio dials... I bite and chew my bottom lip like a china man and rock my head up and down like I'm saying - YES-YES-YES.... Some of the more peirced goth high school kids like checking me out espeically. I want to me known as Nipple Guy by Fall.


Sometimes I've recently used the alias Fred Zepplin.


Sometimes I wonder if General Tso's Chicken and Chicken With Orange Peel are simply some old ladies Mr. Pinkers with a slighly different plumb sauce/soy base.


Sometimes I day dream when buying stamps at the post office - waiting in line the long line -- about ordering a pizza from a place i never frequent... order my favorite... and wait for the delievery person wearing a chicken mask on my head - and a carhart tan leather work glove on my cock & balls... nothing elese... cept maybe a poorly self written Sharpee "What? What" faux inked GANGSTA letters arching over my belly button. -- Oh I'd INSIST we didn't order a pizza.. but then *since it'd be a flavor I'd enjoy... I'd try to negotiate a reduced fee. -- don't worry - I'd tip.


Sometimes I like to have realtors walk me through store front properties - while I explain that it's imparative that my dojo have enough ceiling space for me to flight kick. - That my purposes of renting the space are to continue my self-invented martial arts. In a studio for my growing class roster for the big match with the Cobra Kia.


Sometimes when I'm in a pick up b-ball game - I like to accuse whoever is gaurding me of getting wood. -- and then begin to wink and blow kisses at the defender anytime I square up to the hoop.


Sometimes I like to initiate conversations by offering an obnoxiously obvioulsy wrong statement about a sport I know very little about -- and follow any further argument to contrary with what is known as the Uniform Excuse- and begin making up lies about the teams original racist mascott that has since cursed the teams future. For real.


Sometimes when I go to the movies and the coming attractions are being shown and if there is a slight pause in a dialog section - in that intial quiet hush of the respectable movie house audience - I like to say "GET YER OWN DANG MILK DUDES -FUCK! PIG! BITCH!..."


Sometimes there's too much month at the end of the xanax.*











Tommy Womack.








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