I was taking an existential shit this morning as I lovingly gawped at the dead trees stabbed with ingots outside. It was a long process but one that allowed me to ponder with iniquity all that is softly menacingly in my head. My devilry is nothing short of infuriatingly angelic in its composition. There is nothing but me. Inimitable me. I have no inherent ingrowing inhibitions. My dictionary remains stuck on page 267. There is no news of relevance to report on. Sales are in the cusp gossip. Moon Zuppa will ingloriously never make money. They need Oprah's infused approval. Don't they get it? Must I investigate or escape? I know. I shall make haste! To where I am asked? Into the nether regions of Netherland! Damn, I'm out of toilet paper.
Ricky Forky is a superbingly loose freelance bon vivant who writes and comments about funny drivel. Moon Zuppa inhospitably welcomes Ricky with a door mat.
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