Tuesday, September 01, 2009

Cranky Large Medium reading, 1 September

Go away.

Will you please leave? Go. Scram. Get. Move along. Why are you standing there? Ah, I see, you came here for something, and you won't go without it. And that something is of great value to you? How much? Heh, as if I would break my vow of poverty for the likes of an interloper. Well, then, what do you expect me to do? A reading. I can do this, if you promise me the greatest reward you can offer -- my prompt solitude. You agree to leave? Permit me to wag my imaginary tail. Here you are:
You are a sappy sentimentalist, a soft touch. You speak before without thinking, and usually do not mean any harm, as though that could provide any solace to those who are on the receiving end of your remarks. You are demonstrative in your affection, and ought to marry somebody who can tolerate being stalked.
Are you happy, now? Of course not. But at least you are capable of looking on the bright side of things -- you are, after all, still around to annoy me. That puts you in a better state of affairs than these people, all of whom, on this date in history, ended all their affairs by heading into a state of decay: Kujo Yoritsune, Frederick Russell Burnham, Marin Mersenne, Haskell Curry, Luis Alvarez, Tadeusz Sendzimir, Pope Adrian IV, Guru Ram Das, Bernard O'Dowd, Drew Pearson, Fran├žois Girardon, Dennis Brain, Jerry Reed, Murray Hamilton, Don LaFontaine, Ann Harding, Jay Youngblood, A. Bartlett Giamatti, Boris Malenko, Cary Middlecoff, Jacques Cartier, Leoline Jenkins, William Clark, Ilse Koch, Albert Speer,
and Ethel Waters.

I sing because you're leaving.
Happy birthday, anyway.

No comments: