Abominable Suckrag of Life: The Probablistic Encyclopedic of the Dubiously Fortuitous

There was, ahead across the tarmac, a buzzard nibbling a snake, and I thought to myself, "hello, America", and the thing traversed across the menthol smoke towards the volunteer oaks, distant; the old dream not dead, but perhaps sleep-deprived and a bit frazzled from being fed rank non-sense.

I was gonna offer the mountain woman a back rub, and I asked of her well-being, her frame of mind, and so forth, her general outlook on things.  She mumbled non-commital and I thought to further, along, to myself, by and by, that the pure shock value of offering a back rub to a stranger, a myself, dubious, markedly strange even to down to my insoles, would provoke a sort of honesty from the lady which is uncommon, but also, even further, that I have no right to demand such from a stranger.

Everybody tends to get more honest on their knees.

But their was the curve and the horse place, and all, Queeftown, and a red concourse of shape with an also strange grayscale outer laying, Randall Queef Orton, and all that, the dream does not die, but maybe is, as said, deprived of sleep, a frazzle, frayed by its on in and out breathing stupidities, guiles and stratagems and the easiest of A and B, what seems the straightest line, and always what I've said:

Simple and easy can be too entirely distinct things; the two do not necessarily overlap and intermix all the time in nature.

And the nicotine film, besmirching Africa across my windshield, I keep brushing at it.

Roots-type supercharger, a Whipple or something, an Eaton?, you flip the toggle there's kind of a jerk, and no buzzard on the pavement is safe then, and I'm sitting there thinking you know, nature's own cleaning crew, don't want to kill them, but not necessarily willing to aim at the ditch to avert that, I'd kill them, send them to wherever eaters of the dead go upon their own demise, and its like too, what Paul said, in the concourse of fellowship, that if we survive by eating our own, be mindful unless we ourselves are devoured, in turn.

Grubbing her shoulders, both of us in our knickers.  A good chance to have an unguarded moment, especially now that Hinckley's out, you know?  As we say, nature will take its course, and all.  A fox in the hen house means chicken for dinner, as was said.

That buzzard, though, kind of a will to have at it, a will to feed and meet increase on the thing, king of a self-evident non-thinking thing about it, and its too stupid to say its instinct, something innate, inborn, stamped on the folds of its little thinkmeats