10/07/2013 - SOMEONE'S BEEN THROUGH HERE

Someone’s been through here, perhaps as sleazy as the wheel. Pour everything you have on him and then light him up with firecrackers and various peapod projectile weapons. Our unit needs orders, not approximations of crop yield. Please weigh up your oracular feats with the remaining few spoonfuls of solider soldier soup. It’s a supper, a supper that demands salt to pronounce it’s flavour and thereby its chastity. They’re saying it’s bland and that it really isn’t going well at all. They’ll slaughter the buildings with iron and turn shit to reality bubbles that slap into empty faces and the dating websites that shine down upon them on the shoreline.

They say I’m chronologically challenged, that I do battle with the remaining probability every day. I say fuck them with their furtive flirty turns of conscience, what is the plainest form of the plan? Never declare war on the fertiliser counties; that is what I’ve learnt and what I have sworn to teach you today. Please grow up ten miles from me, it’ll counter into the restraining order that the Earth’s crust has set out against me. I don’t see the point of being so lifeless in such proceedings, scissors beats hamper every time. Do you want a great library? Would you rather have the great library we’ve been spouting on about in our supposedly spoiled little manner? I got sacked! What do you expect me to do, how do you expect me to get around the issue? I’ve lost all the motley status that’s provided by scientific advancement. All I have is calendars and time-space production. It’s slow to smooth.

Myths meet the triumph of day to day bridge construction and raise impressive monuments to things that may never have ever been there. It’s all a game of spirits, of latching dancehalls that latch onto the pretensions of titanic camels. Give me some orders dammit! The widow is closing in with her clown makeup and I think she intends to make me far too expensive in one fell swoop of her bitch stick. Her sharp brow needs to be skinned by powerful dictatorships and occasional bites of theocracy. They told me that reformation is the ultimate goal, that it will become our voice via ideological tampering. The mathematics topples me with lucky salamanders. Don’t move me just yet, I might as well establish a trade route while I’m down here. A trade route through what, you say? Well give me a minute.

It’s been 300 years and civilisation has destroyed the fictional beckoner with its boulder logic. Making friends leads to making noble teapots: the golden fat person has told me of this fastidious mistake often made by bad policemen and filthy policemen. I steal their hats and cover them with a mysterious alloy before reapplying it to their desktop chariot races. They could kill me but international relations won’t let them. They’re far too neat for that sort of jibber jabber. What do you want now? Currency? Pottery? Again?