“What’s for dinner?”
“I don’t know. What do you want?”
“Dunno. What do you want?”
“Looks like we’re going out.”
Seriously. Why I’m not picking up an Oscar for best original screenplay beats the hell out of me.
There’s a crap for that. Stick a pitchfork me. I’m done. Well done. By Satan himself.
The future’s so blight I gotta dig graves. A pitchfork works well for that, right?
So, technology. Let’s talk about that. It’s here. It has landed on our chests like a motherfucking elephant in a COPD commercial. Let me posit this: How’s that technology working out for you?
In a moment I’m going to share my ideas regarding the three-pronged attack on our very existence by technology. (Get it? Pitchfork?) I used to think there was only one prong but that was before spring break. I’ve since expanded my thinking (as well as something else).
Call it my Grand Unification Theory of Technology (GUTT) if you will. It’s time for a gut check. Spoiler alert: Mine has been spilled open by a pitchfork. Dammit. They let anyone own these things.
It’s time to stick ’em with the prongy end. Make the jump and I’ll get to the point.
Peggy was shy and so was I
She held me hand by the old pig-sty
Mother Piggy crooned a lullaby
When Peggy held me hand by the old pig-sty
Peggy said she loved her own god
I shot her in the head and left her in the sod
Be she sweet or be she shy
Disrespect me God and she’ll have to die
I lifted my arm to about shoulder height, slightly bent at the elbow, fingers spread outwardly and made a sweeping rotating gesture with my hand. With a deep suggestive voice I quietly said, “You don’t want me to go to the store. You want to drop me off at the house first.”
They say the Force can have a powerful effect on the weak-minded. That doesn’t include wives. The car pulled into the grocery store lot and we parked.