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The Hogs of Entropy 0104
-|- the hogs of entropy -|-
-|- "text files to read with soup." -|-
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/' /' `\
/' /' )
moo. oink. /'__ /' /' ____ issue
/' ) /' /' /' ) -104-
/' /' /' /' /(___,/'
/' /(__ (_____,/' (________
>> "SCREW" <<
by -> trilobyte
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excited by the possibilities, happy young rob was known as bob by his
friends and fag by his enemies.
little did they know, he had tabs on everyone, and when they
weren't looking, he defecated into his hand and wiped it on their house.
he wasn't really gay, you see. rather, he was bisexual -- and ran a booth
at the flea market where he sold blankets and bolts and things that people
didn't want to buy. until he bought the door, then they got mad and
yelled at him
fag
and then he ran out of it and went to get more.
they said
there is none, man, shit
and he looked and looked and looked very ugly at the time, confusing
the reader and he liked to swim. bob, his name, ate fish at night on
certain occasions when his grandmother came over the hill to his cabin in
the woods. it was adjacent to the garage of his cabin, which came in
handy when people brought automobiles to his cabin. bob's wooden cabin
was stately and the large breasted women in the suburb where his cabin
lived degraded bob and his children for being
fag
even though really he lived in the woods and had the upper hand on
them all. and he didn't even have any children, so he just whooped their
asses in parcheesi and gin rummy and other card games. the number five
played a large part in his worldly conquests, causing him to eat more fish
than his grandmother could assemble in her five hour workshift at the
store. she was getting old hat, blue, please, in the box. no, the other
one. on the top shelf. thanks.
christmas time came and the cabin was full of tea, warm to the touch
and tasty to the tongue. spelling was not bob's forte, as his daughter
could tell you, if he had one, which he doesn't, so changing case won't
help you now. fart. or don't, for as the calling comes, we all shall
live in the world of our lord his god and the goat with the ghost in the
box in the head on the table in the place they like to call heaven or hell
or one of the afterlife places. or so felt bob, he thought, when he was
alone in his cabin with his grandmother and sons. he had three sons until
he realized he had none and then he had no sons anymore. but.
bob's gate kept people in and out as he pleased to have them. if he
was not pleased to have them, he took the utmost care to make sure that
the gate was closed so that the person could not come in. because
unenjoyable circumstances were not things that bob enjoyed putting up
with, not with lots of hair on his head that needed to be cut badly. bad
haircuts were not something that bob liked, since he was gay, and had to
keep his hair looking nice so that he could convince people that he wasn't
gay, even though he isn't. but he ain't. and so am i, said he, after
climbing to the top of the tall thing, looking down on creation and he
really really liked to sing that song. thinking of the old baseball card
shop in the ghetto made him realize his wealth and power in modern
society, and his calling to baptize all young chastized women into the
church of the holy harpoon that killed dozens of whales in the days of
whale-harpooning. must be worshipped, me, now, thanks, thought bob, or
tom, as his senile uncle sometimes called him but yes. i do agree
sometimes, depending on the time of day and week i am. not feeling good,
said she, eating crescent rolls on ends of wheat and rye toast butter
jelly food. broad road is tread often, but only on the way, the right
way, the way to the gate to heaven. lots of flashing lights, people
standing on words that can't describe the way i'm hooked on a feelin'.
i yelled and scratched my head vigorously until i got sick of
doing so and then i decided to yelp at the dog who was eating my food.
"stop eating my food", i quoted from the story. dog left with his scarf,
it was cold outside, very cold. bundle up. so.
no reason at all is why he built his cabin in the woods to get away
from his grandmother who came to visit him and his daughter's fish in time
for the spelling bee, but she had to be home in time for her fivehour
workshift at the store because she had to pay off her automobile which was
sitting in bob's garage. so, really, we all believe bob is a
fag.
no doubt.
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* (c) HoE publications. HoE #104 -> written by trilobyte -- 6/11/97 *
