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A word from our sponsors poker night

To: poker-night
From: electroblake
Subject: A word from our sponsors poker night
Date: Thu, 7 Sep 2006 19:05:25 -0400

In the abyss, as the last dark shadows stand creeping into the willow
woods, the madness fastens onto the mind of our young hero’s soul
coughing spirited recess.  “Whyfore,” thinks he, “should I hasten to
fasten my life onto the smog filled expressway of this psudonatural
god given life of man, this straight and steady path metered by
filling station and closely guarded by satellites of love not war, of
jobs not war, of our unalienable rights to life, libraries, and the
pursuits of traffic cops??”

As the twilight glistened off the newly polished floor of our heros
clean clean mind, so sparkling clean the brains within could show up
on televised adverts for products designed to clean you kitchen floor
and your only thoughts would be that you must go out immediately to
purchase brains to clean you floor with, lightly scented, highly
absorbent, clean clean brains of the skull of the home of our hero
who thoughts pored out of his head like so much dish soap down the
drain, who’s emotions bubbled out of his ears like an overloaded
washing machine, and who’s very voice of reason could cut through the
grease that clings like science fiction blood suckers to the veins of
the invisible super heros of childhood, our hero realized the meaning
of life.  He paralyzed the life of meaning.  And he analyzed his mean
life savings.

In his despair  our hero reached into the vast banks of his
glistening cognitive reserves and pulled out first a rabbit, but then
a calling, and to his calling he drained the abyss, in the dark
corners of his calling he stashed the last dark shadows.  The willow
woods blossomed anew like fresh q-tips used to clean the ears of gods
and imagined lovers who’s ears never ever produced dirty yellow
earwax but only covered soft and shimmery sparkles.  Our hero taught
his calling to eat off the floor of his clean clean mind and soon the
cockroaches of imagined splendor learned to feast on the crumbs of
ambition and scraps of talent.  The calling learned to roll over, to
shake, and to play dead.  Our hero took his calling on long walks at
night and took it to the park on sunny days as the imagined lover
grew ever more jealous and conspired with the gods to bring our
hero’s calling to a premature demise, and in the abyss as the last
dark shadows sit creeping out the the rotting corps of our heros
calling, the madness glistens in the last shimmering beams of
luminance  which pierce their way through the tattered remains of
unrequited life and as the day becomes evening our hero finds his way

to

poker night

which is tonight

at danger house.

which is

XX XXXXXXXX XX. #X

in somerville.

“first hand at nine”

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