I was trying to concentrate on an escaping worm yesterday. Don't you dare laugh at my lack of speed. Have you ever eaten one the size of your leg with no hands? My hard time was exacerbated as DWD was on another political tirade on the phone. Something about hating fancy felosi. Sounds like an Italian dressing, which is weird, because DWD loves salad. So do I for that matter, as he gives me the leftovers. He has started these rants a few times a day over some apparent change in a health fair. I think he must have attended one. If I were a betting girl, I'd say his cholesterol was checked and too high. DWD doesn't handling aging or lack of fitness very well.
I thought he was done so I started to nod off under my heat lamp, tummy full of earthy, wormy, goodness. Then he started in on trying to get money from some Irish guy. He wanted to bill O'Reilly or O'Malley or O'Someone. He had a lot of mean things to say about this person, too. This also made no sense as DWD does no work overseas. In fact, I suspect he simply does no work.
My point is though, why do you all stress out so much? Too much on your plate at work? Not enough on your plate at the table? Just hibernate. Take a break. It's a good rest. Then have sex when you wake up and pass on your genes. Nothing matters after that. Homo sapiens of the world, chill out.
Wait, what? You have to raise your young? Wow. That sucks.
This blog isn't kept up to date much. Find the good stuff at DWDaltonAdventures.com
Mr. Dalton writes sci-fi novels and designs games. This frees up the superior intellect, me, to write everything else.
I'm Shelly. A box turtle. That's Terrapene carolina for you biology nerds. Yes, I know I'm supposed to italicize genus and species. I just can't reach the ctrl and i keys at the same time, smarty-pants primates.
No comments:
Post a Comment