While I was cleaning out my Pookie, I ran across some...demented...text files, which I finally identified as the content of some virtual cards to Biskie. I am amused enough to inflict them on you.

Fifty years from now, you will have a story to tell, and it will go something like this.

One day I was walking down the street with my friend Myrtle, whose real name is really in reality Kunzite, only she kept getting attacked by these perky little girls who called her "pretty boy," because you know good ol' Myrtle has always had a slight gender problem, which had led to several lawsuits and a couple child-endangerment cases, but of course nothing didn't come of that, because you can't rightly call them little spawn children, now can you, but anyways so we called her Myrtle, and Myrtle and me were out for our evening constitutional, and of course Maude had asked me to pick up a dozen eggs, bless her heart, and I never could tell her they only came twelve to a carton, so anyways we stopped off at that little grocer's shop where I used to pick up all them ticks when I was a little girl, and that's how me and Myrtle met, by the way, she would throw hot laundry water on me when I started screaming about them eatin clear through to the skin, and so we became the best of friends to this very day, and so we picked up the eggs for Maude, bless her heart, even if the poor ol' gal did get herself an iron lung after that last little incident with with the garden clippers, and I -told- her to ask that little boy down the street if he'd like to take care of the yard for a summer job, even knowing how him and Muffy have taken a dislike to one another, and I myself always think it's real cute how Muffy thinks he's protectin the household from the dangers of the world today, only the neighbors wake up when the screaming starts, y'knows, which still wouldn't be none of my nevermind only the nice man in the dress says how next time Muffy bites someone and takes the finger off we'll have to have him put down, which would be such a pity considerin he ain't even old enough yet to vote yet, and after good ol' Eddy Scott won the last election, bless his heart, well, let's just say ain't ever'thing quite kosher 'round these parts no more, know what I mean, don't you though, so anyway poor ol'Maude, bless her heart, with that demn iron lung, out there clipping away at the forsythia with sweet li'l Muffy just panting away from the heat, because you know good ol' Maude, bless her heart, just can't seem to a-keep from gettin her skirt on fire, and the nice man with the axe said next time we burn the house down they're going to send us to a nice new home out in the country, but I don't expect as how they'd let us keep Muffy, and Muffy ain't a going to no stranger's home as long as I'm alive and kickin, or twitchin at any rate as we used to laugh around when I was younger, like when I had them ticks that Myrtle would pick off me, and anyway you recall we were pickin up them eggs for Maude, bless her heart, to make a nice lemon quiche for Muffy's birthday next month, and this was when we were younger, mind you, before she had the iron lung and had ta quit makin her li'l messes in the kitchen, and so we bought the eggs for her, and by this time it was getting kinda dark outside, it being six-thirty in the middle of a lovely August morning, and so we had to walk quick like home, and iffen you ain't never tried to run in them high-button shoes with the wings on the heels, well you shed feathers like it ain't no one's business, not even Maude's, bless her heart, and she thinks everything under the sun is her business, bless her heart, and so anyway Myrtle and I were running along downtown home when she tripped over a small boy lying out in the street, poor li'l thing had gotten himself run over somehow, likely as not it was that card Eddy Scott up to his old tricks again, but Myrtle just dropped them eggs when she fell and I didn't think as how I'd be able to put them back together, seeing as how all these cats were already gathered around lickin them up iffen as they'd been cod liver oil, which you know Myrtle is allergic to, she breaks out in these nasty hives the size of my sainted mama's warts, bless her bloated corpse, and they don't go down for nearin a week, so anyway I thought as how Maude, bless her heart, could go gather some of them wild groundhog eggs like Muffy likes, cause you know around these parts we's got the biggest groundhogs in the country and they do lay some whoppers, and Myrtle thought that'd be a fine idea seein' as how we were all over ticks and broken eggs and them demn cats were crawlin' all over everythin', so we just trotted along home like we'd been meanin' to all along, and didn't we have a time puttin' the fire off of Maude, bless her heart, who'd went and got her skirts in the oven again.

Your grandchildren will love you. heh

 

This dates a few months later:

 

chew chew chew go the leetle bugs that live in my brain. snap snap snap go the leetle dendrites and synapses. These boots were made for HEARTLESSLY GRINDING THINGS INTO THE DUST.

So I was walking down the street like I do Friday nights you know, only it was Wednesday cause we hadn't changed the clocks yet, and Orville was still trying to grasp the Gregorian calendar concept. eventually we had to beat him over the head with a sundial and leave him in a dark closet full of unopened tuna for six weeks...He seemed a lot better after that. But anyway, like I was saying, or I was trying to say but the damn kids won't shut UP, and I TOLD Caroline I won't babysit anymore, but she just looks at me blankly, throws up her hands, and says, "I declare, Charles!" in a mildly shocked tone. First of all, my name isn't Charles, zark it all, and on top of that, I'm damn sick of cleaning the vomit stains out of the frickin carpet. And those kids! God! The oldest one keeps walking around into walls and shit, another one sits there in a dazed stupor, clapping her hands and murmuring something about mittens in July. What the fuck. I'm going to whack them with sundials too. where was I...Oh yeah. So I was walking down to the corner looking for the dog, in case those psychotic old ladies with the winged shoes and egg basket were keeping him somewhere...I asked ol' Eddy Scott to do something about them last week, but he just chuckled, patted me on the head, and reminded me to vote. The man's a half-wit, but his father was a card. I saw Dinsmoore down in the shop the other day, and we reminisced about the good old days before the Lindbergh hangings. Things just haven't been the same since that, and the riots afterward. I never knew there was a Jehovah's Witness temple within fifty miles of here. Just goes to show...something, I guess. But I didn't find the dog. I did pick up a cute little baby bird for the cat later. That damn animal. Always morphing into brightly painted robots with fangs and lurking in corners waiting to jump out at me. I swear to Inanna the goddamn thing LAUGHS every time. It think it's some kind of fucked GAME or something. Blows my mind, I think the kids have been teaching it tricks or some shit. I keep telling them if they don't behave better they'll get a new mother with glass eyes and a wooden tail, but they like WANT that, and I don't blame them, with a nut for a mother like Caroline. now THERE's a closet case, so help me Kali. what-ever. The closest I ever got to sense out of her was this one day...The barometer must have been falling like my hair, cause EVERYONE was acting weird, the blind kid walked into the same wall repeatedly for an hour, like she was trying to break a hole through it, and the one with the mittens sat there wearing them on her ears and coughing. Oooookaaaaay. The cat kept snarling at me in BINARY. the damn thing would hiss 01001100 10110111 01011010 and I had to reformat it again. That's IT, I'm getting it spayed, or partitioning a couple sectors into Linux or BeOS or something. just TRY to catch that sucker to push Ctrl-Alt-Del. It's worse than trying to bathe the damn thing. and dont' the sparks fly THEN! Worse than the time the mitten kid tried to microwave the bird...They don't make those things like they used to do, I just upgraded to WinAviary 2.50, and it STILL shorts out on me. I keep reconnecting the cables, but I guess the wiring in the house is too outdated. If Caroline wouldn't insist on using tallow candles, maybe we'd get some work done in here. I'm going to shove that butter churn somewhere uncomfortable. Honestly! She tried to make butter out of RiceMoo last week. SORRY, BITCH, IT AIN'T GONNA HAPPEN!!! God. if I have to sacrifice one more goat to ward off the evil demons they bring in the house, I'm gonna kill something! And it's not like it's only happened a couple times, it's like ten or more a WEEK! Like more than daily! The pus-dripping ghouls knock on the door, ask the kids to invite them in...and they DO IT. They KNOW all the mirrors are going to break, all the food in the fridge will rot, and a screaming vortex to the alternate plane will open up. They KNOW I hate that, the house smells like brimstone and bad eggs for weeks. Well shit. I'm just chatting your ears off, and I know you ain't got more than five to spare! Git along, now, I know ol' Missus Scott is waiting for you to help clean Eddy III. Never seen a hellish cyborg brought mysteriously to life by forces beyond human comprehension rust that quick before. On ne sait jamais, if you know what I mean, heh heh heh. Dig ya later, tiger!!!

 

I’m up too late. Much too often.