I know that there was easy rapport between us; you were a nice guy, easy to bargain with, unsmelly. I chuckled along when you pointed out the billboards you thought were funny and actually LISTENED when you started, unprompted, to educate me about the woes of being in the riding business. I didn’t even snap and tell you to shut up and do your job, which is what I usually do.
So I have to ask you, man. What made you decide to smear the contents of your nose on my face? What the hell was that for? I can still feel your DNA, cold, clammy, lumpy and all too alive at the back of my throat, ssebo. It’s clinging to everything it can find, making me gag.
It deserves a pat on the back for fighting for life so vigorously, but I’m not going to sit here and let it mutate me. I have no desire to become half-boda-guy-half-amazing-chick.
My innards are nauseated, my gills are green. I feel like cod liver oil has come to life inside my gullet and is spitting all over the place. Worst of all, I feel like I’ve made out with a boda guy.
I tried to dispose of your slime in some hapless person’s mouth, but alas it clung. This struck me as unfair as one gullet is as good as another. It’s refusal to shift base seemed malicious, just like you.
What’s my plan? I’m going to drown it in whisky of course. The two bob bagpiper whisky from kookee supermarket that comes in a juice box. I
felt you convulse when I downed a couple of boxes yesterday, so I know that there’s no love lost between the two of you.
I hope you never have another stiffy for the rest of your life.
This is war.