Are 300 nukes really enough?

Sometimes I just sit naked on the couch at home and spray canned air into my mouth; I know it’s the closest to Antarctica I will ever get.  I also open all the windows and run the air conditioning on high in the middle of the night in the deep of winter.  I play the sounds of Antarctica on the stereo and feel the spirit of the animals and nature.  I shout really loudly at the lamp for 10 seconds, stop and then repeat every five minutes to mimic a man going slowly insane after months and months of no human contact whilst he is researching moss and lichen in deep recesses of Antarctica.  I grow a beard and braid it with friendship beads a class of fifth graders sent to me from Tacoma who think I am really at the South Pole, even though the postage stamp on the letter comes from Wisconsin and has whiskey and marinara stains on it.

 

I eventually spring off my purple couch and run through the hallways of the apartment building rattling the doors with my stone aged spear made out of a mop, duct tape, an empty half gallon milk jug and a boning knife.  I scrawl my name in the underground parking area on the door of the garbage room in Red Sharpie; it takes me half a day.  I run out into the outdoors and across the golf course and build a bon fire on the 18th green; this is my heart of darkness!  I scream at the top of my lung: “Mo Cheese Mo Montlebon!”  It is the dark lord of cheddar and he’s hungry for meat, green mold, and Golden Girls!

 

The souls of the rich beckon me for their gold will pay for Mo Cheese Mo’s dark lair of ageless cheddar which is available after two millennia and will take the paint off your face when you send it across you lips into your meat sack.  The stomach is a wonderful meat sack inside and out. A good chaser to ageless cheddar is timeless beer made from cow souls and wheat spirits sure it doesn’t make sense but neither do chopsticks, I mean come on that’s so twelfth century it’s so much more snobbish than a fork especially at the Old Country Buffet.