Shit From The Future / 1 March 2005
You know when you take a shit and it’s sort of gray and perfectly cylindrical? Like Shit From The Future? Ha ha yeah me neither. Yeah.
I eat lunch by (this is an unrelated story by the way OR IS IT) as I was saying I eat lunch by this marina and today as I walked on over to the garbage can — singing a ditty* — I saw, on the ground: cigarette butts, plastic bottle of vodka (empty), an assortment of beer bottle caps, a 40 oz (half-filled with pee or pee-colored liquid), a couple of smashed light bulbs (?), and a used condom. And then I did the Shawshank where you reach toward the heavens and just flat-out exult in the majesty that is life.
This is all backstory to show you how I take real life and store it away for future use, because later on I’m in a meeting and it goes:
Private label meaning store-brand. I hope I’m not being condescending adding this explanation but I want these quotations to be accurate (for my biographer) (who right now is an imaginary fat kid named Marty who’s doing an extra-credit project but will hopefully someday be somebody non-fictional and maybe at least a little leggy) and I sure didn’t know what private label meant until recently. THE ENDING.
*”Tonight / I’ll be your naughty girl / I’m callin all my girls / We’re gonna turn this puppy [sic] out”