Another monologue written in haltingly unfamiliar dialect of the addled brain of me.

I hate pretzels. And that is the only reason I can accept, however grudgingly, the bizarre and irrational hatred exhibited by my female friends toward the seemingly undeserving Andie MacDowell. (What’s this? a link?)

Now I know that many of you carb junkies and beer-guzzlers in my little neighborhood of webspace will argue that my loathing of the little salt covered stale bread pieces marketed directly to you in tremendous and distubing quantities is unwarranted and that pretzels will some day replace petroleum as the sole energy source and messiah of the modern world. That will put Bush in his place.

“Who doesn’t like pretzels?” The answer is simply: the Buddha don’t. Awful grammar makes the answer all the simpler, my pupil. I know that millions of people around the world are satisfied to put the mildly spiced dross of so many breadmakers into their slavering maws by the handful, but I say to that, “No, thank you.”

I’ve only recently discovered this, and am working on its applications to popcorn and peanuts, just to create an unholy trinity of hatred poorly thought out snack food.

I hope there will be comments on this one. Maybe I’ll even make a forum.

So, I accused my girlfriend last night of having absolutely no train of thought. Where her train should be, she has a technologically superior thought-transmission device which merely transports her active consciousness from one place in her expansive and alien brain to another instantaneously and without connection to its previous location. Untraceable, except perhaps by some super team of electron jockeys.

Then, I got up this morning, had my morning commute and suddenly found myself ruminating (people at work might see this pun) on a girl I had met “online” in the old days of pine and finger. (On a sidenote, “pine and finger” is a phrase with endless possibilities; if you steal it, I’ll pine and finger you in a very uncomfortable way.)

At any rate, I was suddenly no longer swept along in my own stream-of-consciousness. Instead, I had clung to a rock, dragged my way on top of it and used binoculars to find the source of such a ferocious current. Let me give you a glimpse of my (not bizarre, probably, but amusing, I think) brain’s ridalin-deprived frenetia (that might not be a word, but I think it is far better than the likely “freneticness”).

You’ll have to click below to get the whole story. Go on. It’s not hard, but it is long. And yup, that’s an innuendo.
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