Oh there is so much shit I want to write about. Wait, no, I don’t want to write about shit, not that shit, I want to write something else. It’s a burden to know things. Once you know what a bison looks like, for instance, you can spot every bison at a mall. And here you thought those were mall cows. Heh, I kind of like that little analogy, it’s cute and says nothing at all and everyone who read it already knows what a mall cow is, though the two of you that read it are thinking of two different things.
About thirty some odd years ago the State of New Hampshire opened a state lottery, thirty some odd years and a few months later they closed it down. To make it very simple, they had top statisticians set up the lottery, but no criminals. They almost went bankrupt. Gambling isn’t considered a vice crime because it offends the puritanical ethic, it’s considered a vice crime because if the fix isn’t in it soon will be. There is no multi-million dollar gentleman’s bet. The very idea of such a thing is like street brawls being held to the Marquis of Queensbury rules; someone is getting kicked in the nuts before they get to the first Q.
Neither mall cows nor mall mall bisons are predators, worse yet, they are both kind of yummy, even vegans can beat them up and take their lunch money. I’m not advocating that, I’m just saying don’t play with kids that salivate when you come round.
I’m ready to go into the mountains and leave valleys behind forever. A person can be a saint; people are assholes. Hm. That’s paraphrased from somewhere … oh. Yeah. Newsroom. A person is smart, people are stupid. Had something to do with an election or something. If it didn’t before it sure does now. Come November there’s going to be a lot of people looking around wondering if they got the joke ballot or what. And at the mall the jackals will be picking over the carcasses of cow and bison alike. Maybe not jackals in north America, but crows sound so … pedestrian.
Ok, so that’s three solid paragraphs of cryptic with an extra cheater paragraph in there. Let’s call this a five paragraph essay about who-the-fuck-knows. Heh, we might just got around to that movie tomorrow.
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