Did you know that if you don't move your body for long enough, it starts to die? I mean it! You don't believe me? Give it a try, then! Ready? Okay: sit still. That's right. Now just keep going. Pretty soon, you'll start to die! This is a fun game you can teach the grandkids, and it'll keep 'em outta your hair for a week or two. I just discovered it myself when Grandma went on her vacation trip to the far, far North with her black friend, Tyrone. When she left, I just sat down here in my recliner and waited. That was Monday. And today is either Thriday or Muesapday. The point is it's been a long time. And it's just struck me that the only reason I ever move is to get away from that woman. Now that she's gone, I haven't got a reason to shuffle from room to room. If she isn't back by Dotard-day, I'll likely die! The dog is persisting to breathe under the card table. I see him. I wonder if he's playing the same game as I am? I'd feed him, but I'm allergic to dogs. I can't even associate with that little peen, or I'll start sneezing. The doctor said that if I do touch his dank ass, I should wear a protective facemask. What the hell is a protective facemask? I don't think he meant a Halloween mask, but I wear one anyway. Then the dog won't even come near me! He's gay. Grandma and Tyrone are probably having the time of their lives right now. Tyrone is so nice. He has a special kind of magic. I can't describe it. But he's got a way about him, and I even saw him vanish once. He walked around a parking lot, totally invisible, and carried his car keys so it looked like they were floating. I had a good laugh. And when the sun comes up, Tyrone turns visible again! Can you believe this guy?! Son of a bitch!! Right?! When Grandma gets home, she'll be none too pleased with the smell in here. But if I get up now, I'll really upset the family of western harvest mice nesting in my crotch. There's really no reason we can't co-exist in harmony. I hear they have a pretty short life span anyway, so I'll humor them.
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