sane magazine


Sacre Merde!





Having been a regular for some couple decades and a half or so on the planet, the majority of us here (except for that dodgy old geezer that always sits at the back of the office and giggles to himself, bloody crazy, he is, not that he doesn't play a vital role in the daily life of the office, daily and productive, I might add, and shall, as we should always cherish the elderly, unless they're allowed behind the wheel of a cab, and are just going to talk you to death with their incessant "Bobby tripped there once while I was driving past this very spot, 'course, he's been spayed and neutered now, so he doesn't get out much, oh, and there, looks like those people are moving out of their house, seems it, wouldn't it? Nice day for a move, it is, can't seem to find number twenty-three around here anywhere, boy are my eyes ever getting bad, getting so I can't tell which is the steering wheel any longer" and the lot, in which case, we should probably not cherish them quite so much, and attempt to grab another cab if at all possible) have noticed quite a few things.
And the vast majority of them have come from Chinese fortune cookies.
Like, for example, the one just recently opened by an unnamed person that promised something along the lines of a romantic encounter. Soon. Which is always good news.
Good news, that is, if one is prepared to live out a storybook romance... eh.

Anyway, forget that.

Remember that old man, the wise old man, wisened from his years, though beyond his years, brilliantly perceptive and wildly wily, amazingly witty, just a little musty smelliing, and still not quite wholly incontinent?
I ran into a man like himself this very weekend, yet again. It may have even been the same old man.
And you know what he told me?
To tell you the truth, I really couldn't understand a word.

disclaimer:
None of this is true. Or at least the bit about the racoon isn't.


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