note: Cardiogeist and Wombat are old epitonic editors who no longer... edit.


One evening of pouring booze, an eventide of hooch, I found myself engulfed in flame, tethered to the ground by chains, and drowning in a mouthful of White Out. I glanced around and there were all my pals -- Cardiogeist, Yard Bird, The Wombat. They were roasting marshmallows over my open flames.

I tried screaming a bit but it didn't seem to help. Then I tried to tell Cardiogeist that if he held his marshmallow that close to the flames near my mouth that it would be encrusted with carcenogenic White Out fumes. He didn't listen to that either.

I thought back to the days of my own disembowelment there at the office -- how I'd danced on my desk and done jumping jacks with my own intestines while brandishing the sun-on-a-stick that I call a desk lamp and how no one -- and I do mean no one -- noticed.

These people here are myopic. I love them all, but damn, they're just not too bright.