Um. So I don't know about that screenplay. Maybe I should just film people's eyes or something. I could call it "Eyes." And then I could add some "i"s and some "aye"s and such, and pad it out to three minutes. I dunno.
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"Onions": A poem. Onions are icky.
They make me feel sicky,
Like an abdomen hickey.
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"Life's unfair, and Ernest Goes to Jail tells us that."1 I hate allergies.
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Arm (me). I haven't thrown a disc in, I believe, a week and a half. It's been too warm. Thus, I'm going to be out of shape for the big Fourth Annual Prins Famile Double-Elimination Disc Golf Tournament of Champions. (Okay, at least a couple of those capitalized words are bound to be true. Right?)
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1 One-and-a-quarter points for telling where that quote is from.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
i sincerely do not know what you are doing here. are you lost? were you
looking for your delicate calico cat, and did you follow her up two flights of stairs
to this room? she is not here. she was here, yes. we gave her a warm bowl of milk, we talked with her about campaign finance reform for a time, and then she bid us good day. i believe she was
going to the post office two blocks down, but i don't quite recall.
for surely you did
not find your way from prinsiana, the least traveled site on
the internet. if you did, though, perhaps you are looking for humor. perhaps you are looking for profundity. perhaps you are looking for answers.
i'm sorry, but you shall go naught-for-three.
