...but not unicorns. I'm not buying that bollocks they sell to tweens for nineteen dollars and eighty four cents: Not only is it an ominous number, but nothing in nature is pink which sparkles and smells like cupcakes. No, a unicorn would just be a great big horse, smelly and rank like other horses, but unlike other horses, it has a great big horn, pointy, you note, and not for conducting a symphony or showing students the position of uraguy, oh no.
Look into the eyes of a horse the next time you see one. In that dark eye framed with long lashes, you will see the soul of a bloddy minded killer, waiting to imdiscriminately slaughter all until the streets run forth with blood...all it is waiting for is for evolution to give it what it desires: a weapon.
And don't even get me started on those mini horses. Just because there is less horse doesn't mean there is less insanity. It's just more compacted. And their heads are groin height.
Speaking of insanit, I am at home. Home home. Home on the range home. Home in the middle of nowhere home, Waipukurau. It's a place I come sometimes, sometimes for a place to unwind, sometimes because I feel guilty about not seeing my parents for so long, but mostly because I am sick of toasties and have come to eat all their food and beg for money. Also, now, in the depths of winter, they have a fireplace with wood to burn in said. I like fire. I also like lounging around all day in frount of said fire, reading and playing guitar. I am trying to be a jazz person, but all that is happening is jozz, or possibly juzz. Most of the reason for this, I beleive, is becuase a person who is proficient at jazz needs seven fingers on each hand and must contain all musical knowledge ever, future included, in their minds. Never ever laugh if you see a jazz musician's tounge protruding slightly from the side of their mouth as they play. It is because their tounge is being forced out of their head by the gigantic pressures needed to bend quantum physics and only by clenching their tounge between their teeth as they strum that Am7+5dim chord at 12/7 rythm can they stop that precious mouth organ from rocketing forth from their mouth hole, causing them to bleed to death slowly from the wound, not to mention acute embarrasment.
I'm noticing that everything so far has ended in blood. Don't worry: thats just Waipuk. I'm often surprised that my hometown isn't known for its bloody gun rampages, but apparently people are saved from the general populaces muderous intentions by a comblination of rugby, laziness, and top quality television programming such as "border control". Just because it's on, does not mean you have to watch it! It's not even out border! It's Austrailia's! I have better things to do with my life that spend half hour segments of "reality tv" which is, in reality, what was first produced when a camera man went to lunch with his camera left propped up against a pillar inadvertently left on in his house. The next day, as this is new zealand and the production crew couldn;t afford a new video tape, they spliced scenes from the horror/comedy movie they had previously been making "House of the Reanimated Idiots", spent a few minutes for voice overs and Big Brother was born.
And that was all true. All of it.
In other news: I had vastly importaint and pertinent things to say here, but as they say here, "EaSYning", which, I belive, is some sort of addage on the fleeting nature of life around here. Or its just a muddle of sylables spewn forth but a member of this town known for it's one invention, a shot cocktail known as the "Main":
Take one large glass.
Place a piece of mouldy bread across the opening.
Filter 1/2 bottle of methelated spirits through the mouldy bread. Place bread to one side as chaser.
Fill the rest of vessle with Viking ("Conquer the taste!") beer. Mix thoroughly.
Add vanilla essance, lime juice, or rotted leaf mould to taste.
The best part is that you think I'm joking. Oh well. Back to the metropolis on Sunday.
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