Happiness is not a circus clown rolling around in a big tractor tire so that his arms and legs form "spokes." Happiness is when he stops.
It was with little fanfare that the brute ingressed ‘pon the tierra.
No, that’s a lie. It was with a lot of fanfare that he did his ingressing, which Microsoft Word insists is not a word, but some of us are the greatest literary minds of our generations and some of us are a computer program, so suck it, Bill Gates.
Anyway. With great fanfare – by which I mean with a dramatic, modelesque (also “not a word”) flair – Satire strides into the meadow. His semi-silken pelt glistens with what we can only hope is sweat. His lubricious pelage falls eloquently across the capricious curvature of his eminent neck, because sometimes it’s fun to use adjectives and not bother with “definition” and “appropriate usage.”
(People who tell you that are just being sagacious bitches, anyway.)
Satire – Satty to his friends, which is everyone – has been through many iterations as his narrator’s definition of humor evolves (or devolves, we’ve never been quite sure). A few things stay, persistent in his personality, like HPV – he is fat, he likes men and women (neither like him), and once he worshipped sand.
(It was a dark time in his life.)
His flints strike the earth with great power, or perhaps because the body balanced precariously upon his limbs was incredibly fat. We’ll leave that to the philosophers to decide. He casts a glance about with his too-small eyes. He is instantly in love with everyone in the meadow.
A fool in love, he smiles broadly, his labrums stretched wide in a sentence that sounds way dirtier than initially intended.
“Hello,” he says, almost sounding suave, except for the fact he was speaking to a tree and not any one horse.
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(this is why you don't ever let me catch up on posts)
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