"If only I could save this blog."
"Not even you have that power, Flash."
Once again, The Great Escape from having to come up with something. Anyway, I, my face red with embarrassment at being caught red-handed at
playing in the card catalog spectacular craptaculism, will try and stem the tide crimson with the blood of failed posts from spiraling ever downward into further depths of banal, probably scarlet or maroon, internets mediocrity.
Nicole’s cataracts have worsened, so I knew she was going to be running late because she had to relearn her way around. She surprised me at the restaurant when she showed up beside our usual table and asked me, ‘wow, what just happened?’
"What do you mean, what just happened? Ever since you went nearly blind as a bat and that third eye sprouted out of your forehead like some compensatory Lovecraftian monstrosity and tell me that didn't make us all puke, that addled mind of yours"-- and here he pointed and shook with the force of a million parents angry and disappointed that their child decided to major in English or, egads, Philosophy -- "so riddled with laughter at our puzzlement at the supernatural jigsaw in which you claim to have expertise from decades of absorbing B-movies which are actually subversive documentaries of the world 'they' don't want you to know about yes we heard you the first billion times, constantly grumbling in your ear so much garbled lunacy that you finally cracked, so what do you decide, you decide that you must grab the nearest flamethrower you can find which means hotwiring my car and jetting to the hardware store to purchase an acetylene torch with the stolen credit card you pilfered from a nattily-clad passer-by (probably a banker) that you subsequently jury-rig to Godzilla-like proportion, the acetylene torch, not the credit card nor the banker but who knows with you, flying back here and burning to a crisp the unholy zombie horde that only your"-- more pointing and shaking, with gusto -- "extra creepy special fuckin' eye can apparently see through this Linda Blair pea soup fog of the Baskervilles cliché, but no goddamn sir Jesus on cheddar, you didn't just burn to a crisp that unholy zombie horde but my fucking restaurant, too, my fucking restaurant full of Rice-A-Roni, the only thing that can placate their insatiable need for human brains, so guess fucking what, Ellen Fucking Ripley, we're all going to die horribly in the next few moments, that's what just happened!"