Ventalogical Instillment

5.18.04 When things turn upsadowsy

Well fellow peeps. May I ask what you are peeping at? May I warn you not to peep at the wrong things or you'll have to cut your eye sockets out? Well I hast spoken. Take heed. Take heed for the pending dooooom on your respecitive voluptuous tube. That is, a badly used television.

I would like to make an apology for the "Purpose Driven Crapface." It seems that in fact I am a purpose driven crapface because a fellow substituent responded in a very professional manner telling me how, although Rick Warren and others like him have some beliefs that need questioning, I should attempt to build up the church as a whole and edify others instead of demean them. Therefore, I will attempt to make this action occur, as if I have any control of interdimensional space.

"The rage" has seepingly entered back into my collection of various emotions. The Rage is back. Although I don't think it's here to stay. But if I don't let him wear out his welcome and in fact show him the boot, then I had better replace his presence with something better, perhaps love. And indeed love is a very good thing to have. But then again love takes hard work, as my fellow Immortal hast spoken awhilst back in the first publication of the CCCC. But I think I will try to develop that aspect of my life, and try to think about others more than I do myself.

I must recount a perrilous event which occurred not long ago:

Having summoned up the RAGE carrying chemicals in my brain, I was driven to strike Dendall in the ear with the blunt end of an ice scraper residing in the back of LPatkin's pick-up-truck.

Ice scrapers indeed inflict pain on the ears of the unwary, that is if the proper nerve endings connect the ear to the section of brain cells that process the information generated by a deadly blow. So what caused the ice scraper to make an appearance in my hand and guide itself very delicately to smite the epidermis of Dendall's right ear? Rage I tell you. And I left the scene before any further wounds were inflicted and before police could send me to the penetentiary.

Painfully swiping the claw in green apparrel
Makes deaf the ear and numb the fear of a parasol
For what fear lied here in the wake of the known
Now seeps through a hole dealt from the inner bone
The fetal position becomes my one defense
I shiver and turn with great suspense
As my shadow finds its way through the locks
I'm left just to stare at the clocks
Ticking, telling me what life holds for me
If I can't leave the cell in time

For what life has given me, those are also in the past along with the pain. I find it hard to believe what the human heart can be capable of doing. I myself suffer from this sickness. Help me to break free from such a place.

There's more to life than rage.

Like being able to tickle your way out of a wrestling match.

Or planting devious complex starchy compounds in the backside of Dendall's green taurus and seeing it backfire and go through his aunt's window and smash her figurine collection of 'The Beattles'. Because once the glass falls to the floor, I can activate pburton's time machine and simply go back to the past. Dream of the dreadful Oklahoma! and what would have happened had I not been given help. From friends and the higher power. But rage still flows through my vains. I must get it out! Get it out! As if termites were invading my bloodstream.

Cryogenres. Piggilos.

And of course, fried dog's breath.

As I instill the rage to the rest of the known universe, that will one day explode like Dendall's innerds.

Goods.

p.s. There is no p.s.