day seven
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i am convinced now. It’s one great big fucking conspiracy. What’s that dorky word? Cahoots! They’re all in cahoots. Someone call the manager – there’s a fantastic fuck-up in isle seven, and bring a mop. The Conspirators make a nasty mess right by the canned peas and 2-minute noodles, and then somehow you end up being the useless bastard in overalls whose job it is to get the floor sparkling again.
Just conveniently forget to remember that you, Mr. Useless in overalls, are the chief Conspirator and the others are just too happy to oblige. After all, how long has it been since you stopped someone from making a fantastic fuck-up? Ag. Like, whatever.
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sissy supermarket dexter!
my little clan would put your supermarket mop-ups to shame... you wanna try living in my cave for a month?!
i'll save my conspiracy theories to motivate the purchase of a hut in the desert... my problem is much simpler - a seven year old who believes that a carpeted lounge is a fine place to mix coco-pop breakfasts. theres a grand chance that she is spot on with that theory and i'm just anally retentive.
Morty
Your cave sounds like a very interesting place to go nuts in.
Don't fall for that Morts
He's going for the old divide and conquer routine.
The slimy bastard that he is.
Stick with me girl.
no chance baby...
in your current frame of mind, you're not unlikely to kick at the door to check for fekking squirrells before you go 'a-gathering'.
Here's a thought
Do you think we should kidnap Dex and show him a thing or two about life? You know. Before he passes his prime and all that.
(Well goes any much more past his prime).
i'm in!
a week should do it - in shifts.
prime. ja. i only eat fowl/foul now - but prime beef is a pleasant memory.
you get to brand prime meat on the rump you know?
Then Morts
Our first task will be branding Dex on his artistic rump.
shifts?
Fuck that shit.
You two wouldn't last 4 days.
No dex please can i have the afternoon off? Can we break for lunch? Please can we leave the kittens out of this session?
Softies, both of ya!
thats my dexter!
at least the fekking seventies images of crying boys have been blown out of the water... a bit of teary begging is good and well - but the arty emo shit just isnt doing it for me today.
and -
sure we'd need breaks - smoke breaks; trips to the kitchen for ice; changing the bloodied sheets.
maybe we could add a day to allow for all the little distractions?
lang nagrokkies and white broekies it it may be - but here's another cliche for your collection...
books and covers. dont be too sure.
and therewith ends morts' broekie banter for the day. i'm sulking - in the 'real' world - a fit of feminine feky'all - and i cant take my growing need to draw blood and whimpers out on diablo today.
Ah, Morty
It's fun to try and slip on a new persona now and then, ain't it? Pity i can't stick it out for more than 20 minutes at a time. Hence my enormous circle of friends - last count: 4.
Damn that sounds like the most painfully awesome weekend imaginable. And a good sulk does wonders for the soul, Morts. Puff those cheeks baby! :)
Between you,
me and the viagra, Dex. Talk is cheap. I don't think you'd make it out the gate with the two of us.
Yes Franks
whatever makes your daily drudge more liveable.
Morts
I don't know what the hell has happened to our cowboy.
Crying at sunsets.
Making inane announcements about mops and aisle three.
Jesus.
Was a day the man could rule this place.
And now. He just talks about sobbing into his keyboard at sunset.
Oy!
7!
You mindless peasant. Isle SEVEN is central to the whole thought process behind the piece. But i guess one cannot expect the likes of you to grasp the finer details of mileu.
(we need to stop pretty soon i'm running out of pretentious words)
Talking of peasantry
Don't you mean "milieu"?
Do not
question my words. They exist on a plain higher than the oxford concise.
Dex
You can't bake a cake out of shit.
Whatever way you dress it, no matter how much icing you put on it, shit is still shit.
WOW
i think you set some kind of record for number of cliches in a single sentence there.
Dex
That's what comes of me trying to communicate with you in a language I think you might understand.
Dex
That's what comes of me trying to communicate with you in a language I think you might understand.
What, English?
Yeah. You always try to communicate in it, don't you just.
Gotta run
Smooch!
Ja ja
the house isn't gonna vacuum itself.
*lick*
i'm with janis on this one frankie...
gimme "ONE GOOD MAN".
mind you, it could be all the bored winter nookie natter he is exposed to... lacks the subtlety to bring out the hunter in the average beast you know.
i'm not convinced that the war is lost though.
maybe i'll start working on rehashing the lang nagrokkie sagas and bitten lip implications again.... damsels in distress; heigh-ho tonto and all that.
you think?
Ooh baby
Just the mere mention of you talking about biting your lip has got me all a tremble.
old habits die hard
i was stuck in front of the mirror monster yesterday - with blood on the lip (upper body)... and thinking that perhaps i'm not in the best frame of mind to be returning to my old hunt-and stomp grounds.
it could get ugly - real ugly.
Sheesh
You mean beautifully ugly in a tempestuous and poetic manner more becoming of wild Peruvian middle century poetry?
erm no franks
as in mobs of disgruntled women huntin me with pitchforks and bunches highly flammable kindling!
mind you - i'm sure there are poems, albeit not peruvian, about such things too?
btw. the thingy is in the mail.
Hmmm....
The thingy in the mail.
Sounds curiously exciting.
Do me a favour though.
Don't tell Dex about our little secret.
You know.
The one that involves him.
;)
Riiiight
I'm not sure what kind of meat loaf recipe would involve me, but okay then!
Dex
Cahoots.
Christ.
You would be dangerous with a dictionary, now wouldn't you?
Ja Wanky
I might throw people wiff it.
And while I'm complaining
Conspiracy smacks of evil intent.
What's evil in making a mess?
Like. Oooooh. Look at him. He dropped a paper on the floor. Cor! Blimey! That's baaaaad. But not as bad as Mr Johnson. He knowingly and wantonly stuck gum under the desk.
PS Dex
Go fuck yourself!
say WHAT?
listen beyaatch if don't get the symbolism and subtle nuances in my creative exercises, then i guess there is nothing more to say. Now someone hand me my beret, i have some sunset weeping to do.
pah!
Artistic temperament...
...doesn't make you an artist.
mwuahaahaa frankie! now that...
deserves a bloody bumper sticker or at the very least, a small sidebar banner under the fortnightly challenge.
Morts
Our Dex thinks he's a writer or something. Christ. Just now he's going to cut off his bak ore or should I say the cauliflower looking effigy on the right of his head that he calls his ear.
Lucky for me
my Art is a lofty one, and clean of spirit. Your bile-infested words cannot touch it or taint its singular beauty.
ahahaha.
someone, quick! bring me sixpack and frankly's pooper.
PPS
You're an asshole.
Art
is subject to the perception of the object in question, however whimsical it may be. And if you figure out what that means, let me know.
ps. Do try to fit your whole reply into one comment. These little afterthoughts are simultaneously indicative of your intellect, and tiresome.
Dex
Fuck you Dex.
My comments are the most exciting thing that's happened to you all year.
That and the day that the bat stopped using cheese whirl and put salami on your sandwich for lunch which gave you instant hard on.
Dex
The whole world is in cahoots with the useless bastards in overalls..... just look at Zim.
Cool Dextra! You've gone mad
That's so fekkin awesome :)
haha Cheekin
true words!
Dex.... Did they
open the cans? Otherwise, really, it's not much of a mess...
PS What colour are the overalls? This is important. Somehow the orange ones would be less tragic than the institutional green.
Oh, and PPS Aren't fantastic fuck-ups the whole point? Or is my life really off track?
Red, Sundays
I was thinking a nice bright red with the supermaket name ebroidered on in crisp white lettering.
And ja - maybe that is the point...