Of course there's nothing to buy here
Yes, we have a train to catch. And I don't want to go bleeding all over the seats.
I know what you're thinking... "any minute now, that pigeon will fly away and I can have the rest of that ice cream." Well, you're sick! Eating off the ground like some... like some red-clawed crab, except for the ground is not underwater and the ice cream is not exactly deep sea sediment. You know, actually, sidewalk dairy treats sound pretty good right now. I digress.
School begins again and I poke my rather bulbous nose into texts of ancient Rome. As if I needed anything more than Life of Brian to show me how it was! The administration insists, however, so I always defer to them, as they charge a whole lot of money for the privilege of being correct. Among other subjects of note this go 'round: southwestern U.S. archaeology, films from Hollywood's golden era, and linguistic anthropology. A motley group of subjects guaranteed to not only burst my brain, but to make me entirely useless for the next 15 weekends to come.
You will be happy to know, gentle readers, that the movie industry has graciously lent me another empty pallette for the coming year, since it is clear that no sequel to "Casablanca" is coming, and I should, at some point, have the opportunity to remain unknown and artistically unrequited as befits a lowly peasant such as myself. (Though, I am told, Terry Jones views peasantry in a much more enlightened manner.) If only Graham were around to tell me what a snotty-faced heap of parrot droppings I am, this lack of authoring success would be perfect. What a joy it is to be belittled by cold reality.
If anything, I can at least go to sleep without the sound of randy birds in the nearby cottonwoods making sweet, sweet merriment.
School begins again and I poke my rather bulbous nose into texts of ancient Rome. As if I needed anything more than Life of Brian to show me how it was! The administration insists, however, so I always defer to them, as they charge a whole lot of money for the privilege of being correct. Among other subjects of note this go 'round: southwestern U.S. archaeology, films from Hollywood's golden era, and linguistic anthropology. A motley group of subjects guaranteed to not only burst my brain, but to make me entirely useless for the next 15 weekends to come.
You will be happy to know, gentle readers, that the movie industry has graciously lent me another empty pallette for the coming year, since it is clear that no sequel to "Casablanca" is coming, and I should, at some point, have the opportunity to remain unknown and artistically unrequited as befits a lowly peasant such as myself. (Though, I am told, Terry Jones views peasantry in a much more enlightened manner.) If only Graham were around to tell me what a snotty-faced heap of parrot droppings I am, this lack of authoring success would be perfect. What a joy it is to be belittled by cold reality.
If anything, I can at least go to sleep without the sound of randy birds in the nearby cottonwoods making sweet, sweet merriment.
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