Can you get to the bottom of this? I received this msg again. What do you know about it?
Just be thankful for what you have.
Oh, I'm very thankful to have a healthy collection of bodily fluids.
Yes and of course we are dying from it too.
There are rumors started by a horseman (brother Bill, I
know who it was and that is why you haven't been paid)
that this was only because they looked so good in the
window, but obviously there is no proof in that.
So, who is this horseman?
Being a nocturnal fungus farmer prevents me from
mentioning you by hair color.
Now hold it just there Bozo. First, the man in white,
above, obviously implies (since he is speaking to me) that
the "horseman" is the third gunman on the grassy knoll,
not me or Humpty who was hanging me out to dry at the
time. Maybe it was me?
Are you talking to me or Mr. Einstien? When did you stop
being the third gunman? The message was to Mr. Einstien,
intercepted by you (with an arrow in the picture pointing
to your image with a black rectangle covering your eyes,
who are not now in the second person's house but were
there when the third did his deed.) Isn't that
frightening? I don't know how to tell you exactly why it
happened. Something to do with illegal acts of mowing of
obscenities in the yard.
Of course it is the horseman who comes to the closet to
spoil my new loincloth and I'm content to be the spiritual
leader of the whirling sweepers of the commercial doorknob
district even though to be chosen, the first requirement
is to not believe in any of it. The most unpleasant task
is listening to the crying of those who think it shouldn't
have been them. Mrs. Roosevelt, this is the year of your
introduction. Drag them down with you...
Another unlikely requirement is remaining totally calm in
the face of unthinkable adversity. When you walk down
that hall in front of the president's dressing room, what
you see is more the mask of a closet than the face of a
hall. It is a picture of headless horsemen laughing on
their way to the guillotine, or of being born dead on the
back step of oblivion.
These old shoes are so much more comfortable than the
straps on the electric chair. Shut up the attic.
Are you not giving up the ghost, my father?
I was odd man out. I cried "I have no shoes. I have no
clue. My saddle is old. They've all turned to dust long
ago." I'm really someone else. Only one person knows
either one of us and he isn't talking. Please make it
stop.
