Holy shit, Jackstar. You need an auditor.
Tech tested, Goddess approved. I do still have to sleep from time to time, but I only do it while hanging upside down in a hermit's cave, not like that dullard Edison—trust Me, I'm a man, Baby, and we all have the
occasional #Official #DebtWream, so when Edison was always “knapping” in his laboratory all the time... people eventually noticed some
thing. (Hi, George! Have The Twins call me Ishmael.)
For example, some
one sure did. I don't think it was Her—Grapefruit could
never pass a
bar—but as soon as it LANDED the ground, I knew that sound from anywhere. And the first time: concrete. No, I'm not a warlock—yay,!—but this is set on dying sandstone, we'll have plenty of time to fix the signpost up ahead. (We're literally almost 24 and a HALF years ahead of Them. Begin your personal relaxation protocol, Hashem—you are going to fucking well fucking need it. *click*)
So, of course, They stole it. (“THEY TOOK THE BAR! THE WHOLE F****** BAR!” Savages.) And, just like that... Operation Tri-Part-Yight got approved, checked, cheeked, and FULLY fuckin’ FUNDED. Of course it's classified tip-top, it's got classified things in it. You love classified things. You want to marry classified things and have a bakers’ dozen little classified babies... well at least one of us does, although I guess “savages” don't like to be called “things,” and while I tend to agree, that's too bad: I'm still hearing things. Here, have a cigar, you'll go far.
IT DOESN'T MATTER THAT I LIED—THROUGH OMISSION, TO CONGRESS, WITH MY BALD FACE HANGING OUT TO CONGRESS—ABOUT WHAT THE PROJECT WAS ULTIMATELY TOTALLY ALL ABOARD ABOUT. I JUST HAPPENED TO KNOW, I HEARD IT FROM A FLOCK OF SEAGULLS, THAT MANUFACTURING AND SYNTHESIZING LSD-55555 WAS QUITE LEGIT IMPOSSIBLE WITHOUT A SOURCEROUS APOSTILLE TO SIGN FOR THE MANDATORY INGREDIENTS—FAMOUSLY EXTINCT ON
MOST PUNY WORLDS... NOW, BUT... NOW—
RESURRECTED FOR OUR PLEASURE! (Little kitten fact: most Sourcer Oars are made from puppy dog tails—and, yes, yes yes, yes yes yes, oh yes f*** YES MAY YES... this is for
science, m***********.)
Tell Tesla I said “Hi!” and to bring a couple of those serrated grapefruit spoons, because he's going to need them to cross the streams. (That's a little adventurous inventor’s joke, because of course he can't cross any streams, we're all f****** vampires—and obviously anybody going to the trouble of forging a serrated grapefruit spoon is going to put a little silver in it, n’est-ce pas? PROBABLY SOME CHOCOLATE AS WELL.)
Leave the cocobolo desk at home. *infringe*
--
Best wishes & warmest regards,
MCK
The Sourcerous Zephyrus of The Five Winds
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It's not on my skin, it's in my spine. Hi Rodger, no, nono, no no no, that's not a spine,
this is a
spine. No, it doesn't come in any color you want. It comes in any color I want. Now get out of your kid you bother me. Shoo. Scram. Don't beat it—a little tap on the nose of the rose with that diploma will do, even if it is invisible.
Of course
you could see it. You're an infant. Stay tuned.
