Warm Up
"Do not go into the spoon. Stop where you are. Turn away from it. Don't even look at it."
-Poltergeist
Listen. I know on the door it says I sell cutlery - and I do. It's a job I love. I can go home at night and kiss my children and know they're not embarassed of their old man. I sell cutlery. So you might think that I'm trying to push the expensive things on you because I get some big old commission. Well, sure. That's true. If you buy the Windsor set, I get a nice chunk of change. I'm not here to lie to you about that. Lying is bad for business as disposable plastic knives. Oh, boy. Plastic. Plastic put my grandfather in an early grave. He sold cutlery, too. That's his name on the door. It's also my name, but it was his name first. Between us it was my father's name. So when you tell me that you think I'm pulling your leg on a set of Windsors - well, it hits me in my gullet. Right here. Feel it. You can feel it sort of rocky and firm. That's psychosomatic. It's caused by distress. I feel distress at your cutlery decisions. I feel distress at my wife blowing the head of a plastic cutlery corporation after meeting at the Belgian Cutlery Conference when you think you can trust the one woman in your life to go to the BCC without sucking every dick that happens to be riding the wave of the future without any family connections holding you down from being a photographer like you wanted but your Dad didn't. That's what makes my gullet hard. Right here. Stop feeling it. So let's - no pun intended - cut to the chase. You want the Windsor set. No. You do. You do. You do. You do. You're stealing food from the mouths of my children. You are. You are. You are. Fucking fine. Whatever. I hope when you're forced to chop off your own dick in hell, they give you a plastic knife so it's impossible to cut and you just need to saw it and saw it instead of a smooth dick cut like you can find with the Windsor set. Because that's where you're going and that's where that slut Emma is headed if God is just, which I'm not sure he is. Sorry: Emma was my wife. I forgot to mention her name.
-Poltergeist
Listen. I know on the door it says I sell cutlery - and I do. It's a job I love. I can go home at night and kiss my children and know they're not embarassed of their old man. I sell cutlery. So you might think that I'm trying to push the expensive things on you because I get some big old commission. Well, sure. That's true. If you buy the Windsor set, I get a nice chunk of change. I'm not here to lie to you about that. Lying is bad for business as disposable plastic knives. Oh, boy. Plastic. Plastic put my grandfather in an early grave. He sold cutlery, too. That's his name on the door. It's also my name, but it was his name first. Between us it was my father's name. So when you tell me that you think I'm pulling your leg on a set of Windsors - well, it hits me in my gullet. Right here. Feel it. You can feel it sort of rocky and firm. That's psychosomatic. It's caused by distress. I feel distress at your cutlery decisions. I feel distress at my wife blowing the head of a plastic cutlery corporation after meeting at the Belgian Cutlery Conference when you think you can trust the one woman in your life to go to the BCC without sucking every dick that happens to be riding the wave of the future without any family connections holding you down from being a photographer like you wanted but your Dad didn't. That's what makes my gullet hard. Right here. Stop feeling it. So let's - no pun intended - cut to the chase. You want the Windsor set. No. You do. You do. You do. You do. You're stealing food from the mouths of my children. You are. You are. You are. Fucking fine. Whatever. I hope when you're forced to chop off your own dick in hell, they give you a plastic knife so it's impossible to cut and you just need to saw it and saw it instead of a smooth dick cut like you can find with the Windsor set. Because that's where you're going and that's where that slut Emma is headed if God is just, which I'm not sure he is. Sorry: Emma was my wife. I forgot to mention her name.
Labels: cutlery, sometimes it's the simple pleasures in life, warm up
posted by Mike Drucker at
9:15 AM
1 Comments:
The easiest response would be: "There is no spoon", but I'm going to go with the highest internet praise. I laughed out loud.
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