lycanthropy would an interesting disease to have, in my opinion. rabbits, like carnies, smell like cabbage. if at any point in the following proceedings you understand what i'm saying, consult a physician; blindness may occur.

       once upon a time next year, there was a small table by the name of mustard. every second tuesday of last week, mustard was obliged by the county to murder the proletariat.

       now, i know what you're thinking, tables can't kill anything....right? yeah. you believe that. hypochondriatic platypi are the worst vegetables a british person can fornicate. literally. any way, returning to mustard.

       mustard will be small, next year, last week. so on a logical train of thought, stealth would be his strong point. but that train left four fortnights ago, 17 months from now. mustard was extremely smelly, but not in an offensive way. more like an old woman who has vomited transmission fluid all over her old dress that she just removed from the closet, mothballs intact. therfore, the proles could quite often detect his presence, but it is of little importance. tables, by definition, aren't threatening....even smelly ones. the preamble to the united states constitution is not only bullshit, but racist, ignorant, and ridiculously ill-mannered.

       hyper-intoxicated corpse-sluts will use you for toilet paper, chopsticks, and pimento cheese. mustard will do the same. a lighter was glued to his face, so that people would think, "hey! free lighter.", but alas! the glue puts the lotion on it's skin. like a good paperweight should, rosaries replete.  integral to the healing process, anger is best vented with bullets, because aerodynamicity is irrelevant to true speed. mustard lacks hands, let alone opposable thumbs. bullets are a non-entity. or were. or will be....what the fuck ever. tables aren't worried about guns. they worry about termites. and applebees. applebees is the worst. ask argentina.

        man grabs lighter, gets lotion on hand, yes? lotion is highly contagius baccili capable of reincarnating every mother-in-law in history. mars history. martian mothers-in-law will continue to be the scourge of interior monologues well into ninth grade.

        anterior lighting. effervescent excrement elements irreparably impair elephantiatic immensities. caffeine is need. need is lust. i'd fuck the shit out of some coffee right now. but roads must suffice. lint brushes are hunting for you, mustard.

        scoliosis, mustards nephew-in-crime, was a venomous baseball bat lost in a hookers cranium. the nature of scoliosis's venom was theological, his latin name being "the spanish inquisition", yet he was an atheist. mustard knows these things (or, he's going to find out....or he did...time can kiss my ass). theologically venomous baseball bat nephews-in-crime are a delicacy in many celeries. i mean. dryers.

        having dealt with the martian mothers-in law, mustard turned his attention to the problem of this hookers brain pan. scoliosis was quite helplessly trapped within. promptly petitioning myopic crocodile blisters, mustard attained the fifth level of knock-out, scoliosis, hooker brain. virtual boy.

        rancid cheetah milk aside, this isn't a story about tables, or mustard. or even debilitating spinal diseases named in latin for horrible periods of history. this is a story about sleep cycles. and drugs. namely, caffeine and tetra-hydracannibinol.

        realign yo'self before you malign yo'self. that is all.