Smoot Operator
Your humble narrator is pensive on this foggy Friday morn.
Maybe it was too many bottles of Thunderbird last night, as I wandered delirious and confused after an angry philosophical debate with a mongoose who favored Nietzsche over Kinky Friedman. Stupid mongoose.
Maybe it was that extra package of Hostess Fruit Pie that I knew I should skip, but which called to me at 2am with its processed imitation fruit fruity goodness.
But this morning, after I milked the alpacas, fondled the goats and fed the gila monsters I’m raising for pelt, I had to wonder.
Is the silly cartoon belt buckle the new signifier of cartoonish transformation of masculinity? Do doofy skullz create “post-human?”
In the age of the Hardy Plague, is it the simple adornment of this new form of “crotch signifier” that communicates the power of the masculine ass pear fondlage?
I know not.
So I chaw some more original bubble gum flavor “Big League Chew.” For that always helps my ruminations coagulate.
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