voltaire-
since you're going out... can i have yer chair?
<polvie climbs up in the throne and gazes out over the kingdom, errr, porch. all eyes are on his feetsies... which miss reaching the floor by a good 18 inches. "fetch me my pipe and slippers and i'll tell ye a story," he beckons to the crowd with a wave of hand and a glint of eye, fauxmocking the great voltaire.>
<"it was a dark and stormy night," he begins...
before he can continue he hears the familiar sound of the lear door closing.>
<"sh*t, he's home. quick! under the porch!" shout his frightened angelitos.>
<exploding backerds offa the chair in the perfeck image of a cliff diver, polvie rips a three inch tear in his speedo, picking up a nasty little splinter in the end and a painful bimp on his forrid.>
<"serves the little dipwad right" mumbles jim willie as he scrawls a fat zero on a white card, holds it upwerd, and spits a loada terbackey juice low and to the right.>
<writhing in pain and bleeding the blood of a thousand better men, polvie claws his way under the porch. he digs a quick brown foxhole, deposits his ego and covers it completely with the letters entrusted to him by scores of friends who cannot post on SI. letters of love and praise for the exalted voltaire who has so unselfishly guided them to riches and good fortune and a sense of well being through his mystical stories of trains and rockets and time compression travel.>
<there he lies, shivering, eyes wide, listening for falling stars.>
<"it wasn't s'posta be this way, i was s'posta deliver the message to garcia. now i've even embarrassed poet who was kind to me," polvie sniffles.>
<"shhhhh. they'll hear you," caution his angelitos>
<"who are... they?" polvie whispers>
voltaire. i come with a message from scores of good people in the land of yahoo:
"we love you man!"
-polvo |
