Whee haw

Lets talk feeb farm.

I get paid 8.50 an hour to be a surrogate parent/bud. Its not much, but
neither is the job. I'm college educated, yet I get paid peanuts to sit
on my ass, and cook dinner. I could easily get a second job writing
during my down times. Everyone is in bed at 9. I spent some time talking
to a co worker and the rest was spent watching beefy men pound on each
other. Ultimate fighting drools testesterone.

In addition to my household duties, I am required to escort my feebs to
the food store. I use the word feebs as a term of endearment. I cannot
use their names for legal reasons, so in honor of the great kesey, my
clients shall be my feebs. So, anyway, the feebs and I were at the food
store. I took some time to dissect the reactions delivered upon us by
warring shoppers. Most people glanced at us with utter disdain or pity.
I prefered neither. One woman was frozen in fear after feeb 1, who is an
imposing guy with the mind of a 6 year old, went after the tomatoes with
child glee. She grabbed her daughter and fled. I wanted to stuff her
into the tomatoes. Am I a bad guy for thinking that?

Feeb 1 is an interesting case. I can't go into his history or his
condition for obvious reasons, but I can relate some conversations I've
had with him. Feeb 1 and I were standing by the movies. feeb 1
communicates through sign.

"Want girlfriend"
"You want a girlfriend?"
"Look for right girl. Girlfriend"
"Why don't we check out the store?"
"Girlfriend. For ass fuck"

He made a fist and inserted a finger into its back end. Yes, folks, feeb
1 wants a girl for ass fucking. He even made the proper sign. I about
fell over laughing. Of course, I had to take feeb 1 to my co worker for
an ass fuck sign demonstration. Feeb 1 was happy to comply. The co
worker ended up on the floor.

On a side, tired note, I want to write something nice for t. Ill do that
when I get home.
~ I was not made to live anywhere except paradise ~

Gunk!

I am again attempting to channel the spirit of lance armstrong. Its
interesting trying to write when my legs are bobbing up and down like
funky bobbing things. I punch in a few letters and oh, leg, and the
other leg, and that leg. One would think that I'm moderately distracted,
but to tell the truth, the only that really bothers me is the dull ache
where my cancer once proudly bat, and the sickening feeling of being
sick. Ah, my adjectives today are magnificent little beasts. My legs bob
like bobbing things and I'm sick like a totally sickening quench. And,
besides, the music to which I listen is funky. The last song was the
beatles, something. Harrison makes me happy in my bathing suit area. Now
I'm listening to afroman. Must be because I'm high, or something. In the
mean time, the world's various humors are attemping to flee from my
nose.

Work at the feeb farm begins in earnest today. I'm looking forward to
it, actually. Mostly because I'm convinced that those at a mental
disadvantage are holier and smarter than the average being. At least
they have an excuse to be stupid. I'm not quite sure what tthe rest of
humanity can say about their causes of abject lack of sense.

Ooh, allman bros' soulshine. Happy jon.

I was telling my parents last night that training to become a feeb farm
cowboy was dejection embodied. The feeb farm is desperatte for workers.
Anyone who has a pulse and a high school equivalent is accepted. That
made my class experience an exercise in extreme tolerence. Most people
who know me can attest to my patience, but I'm pretty sure that my
resovoir was taped dry some time last week.

My initial classes were easy enough. There were just two of us in
training. She had three kids at 27 and worked a bunch of low income
jobs. That's okay. The feeb farm isn't the gold collar standard of work.
My only issue with her was that she wouldn't shut up about her kids, her
sisters kids, and her friends kids. Now, I really don't care if bobbi jo
blo likes sticking spoons up his appreciative rectum, and I don't need
to hear about it when I'm trying to learn about proper enema techniques
(look out, kennys about to blow!) the sad thing was, she was my favorite
classmate.

Earlier this week, we had some classroom aditions. An overweight middle
aged lady with three teeth and ponderous pendulum breasts, and a roly
poly ball of obeseness and pimples. Rolypoly kept arguing with the
teacher about the most inane details. Yes, I did that too when I was a
kid, but ill stress the kid part. This lady had to be on the close side
of 30. The worse part of it all was that she had bred. The bitch had
five kids. That's five of her spawn wandering this world and breathing
my air.

The thing that makes me angry about the whole situation is that peter
jennings died earlier this week. He, alone, balanced the sheer stupidity
of a whole collection of rolypoly spawn. Now he's gone and they're still
breeding. The stupidity quotient on this planet is thrown off. The
balance that kept the earth properly tilted is gone. We are doomed to
spiral off endlessly in space. This is bad, will robinson.

Okay. That's 18 mins. I'm trying to channel lance for a minute longer
each time I ride. I started at 15. One day I hope to ride hard for
hours
~ I was not made to live anywhere except paradise ~