Dark matter

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Unconditional doggie love can be a side-effect of being human. Warning: they often understand more than they let on. A talent ed dog will play you like Yo Yo Ma.


Dark matter is the gods dreaming. They dream of holding galaxies together despite their apparent lightness. Sciency people are confused, what with all their mechanical whatsits and electronic thingies, their smarty pants knowledge and theories, their 50 dollar words and logic... it's disgusting, I say!

If only everybody believed what I know, things would go much more smoothly. I'm jealous of people who know what they're doing. It's maddening, seeing everybody's meaningful lives, contrasted with my own pitiful existence. In fact, the fact must be that I have a right not to exist.

I declare, I have the right not to exist! If angels can dance on pinheads, then pinheads have rights too. The same natural rights afforded by any reasonably enlightened human to another so endowed.

I can see it now. Thousands crowding into airports, supporting no one or nothing, because what they support does not exist. Of course the Donald will be dragged into it, the left crowing about a No One Immigrant ban, wearing genitalia- and breast-based clothing, carrying signs, ingesting mind-altering substances, swinging porpoises into policecars and Volkswagens, the right cavorting like St. Vitus[1] greased up with Wesson oil, wearing a hard hat, gas mask, a tutu and cowboy boots. Only such a uniquely endowed species such as our own can express lunacy in such myriad manners.

And so the jelly doughnut persists. What's next? A marriage ban, wherein no no one can marry a no one? This is the kind of thing that stinks up the place.

At the end of the day, the farm manager would perform a ritual check in of tools. He began with, "tally hoe". Then the ruckus started. Drone pilots would be on high alert for the next hour, broadcasting brown frequency and other urban legends. Even John Legend. Retiring to his mystery suite, a concerted Elron invariably lamented th1e lack of good pharmaceuticals for his particular jones. He'd say,"they don't make them like they used to". A group of organized morons patrolled the streets every evening into the wee hours, castigating those deemed likely to exclaim, "it's Hammer & Sickle time!". Never have so few been so many for so long in such a short space of time. Or ought that be space and time? Whatever the case, a case of cases goes wanting for a horse whenever a king so declares.

See in Future[edit]


  1. St. Vitus is in no way connected to this article, the writer nor does he wish to be. Despite several attempts to contact him, the only comment came from his attorney, who told me that since he's dead, he doesn't care. Then he said, "knock knock". I replied, "who's there?"I he then extended both his middle fingers toward my face and said, "fuck off".