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Flash Fictions
Smells Like Breakfast Cereal
Am I supposed to cry? Is that what your long tormenting comments are supposed to do, make me cry? Well it's not working. I've taken duct tape, rolled strips of it into balls and swallowed them with swigs of juice. Then, you ask, what else did you do, you crafty, crafty snot nosed boy you. Well, I would've taken sheet rock nails and covered them in blackberry jam, but they got in my way. Who are they you gurgle, while siphoning gasoline from your parents car. Well, they are the syndicate makers, the heart breakers, the executives with straight spines and thighs that leak milky green fluids. You can staple cups to their ankles and in a few quick and easy minutes you'll have a scrumptious and occasionally chewy refreshment. Not that you cared in the first place. It's not the race after all or before a few. I don't understand, you say as your tongue is crushed by your relentlessly gnashing teeth. Well, I suppose I could buy you a dictionary, but hey what do I look like, a wallet. Sure my skin is leathery, overtaned and folds in the middle, but if you crack my skull open you'll only find a few quarters and maybe a coupon for a free car wash.
See also: New Car Warranty
Raising rabbits is not easy. No, no it's really not. If you get scared, e-mail me and I'll calm you down. Things being what things being.
