Sadly, on occasions, when I am elbow deep in my own cyber juice, I find myself lucklessly directed to various word holes scattered around your generous loins. These are, of course, alternative to the one you are now so ambitiously perusing. The bitter resignation that floods the soul whilst sucking in these lexiconical cess pools is enough to drive a gentlemen to the streets of Ipswich. As you are no doubt aware, I am crippled with despair.
Mr. Argos is, no doubt, a captivating and engaging individual and I am sure you all revel in his unhinged, unwieldy food related narratives. However, between repeated attempts to gouge out my own eyes, I chanced upon his parabolic tale of baths brimming with a newly acquired sausage gravy addiction. Well, gentleman Argos, as much as it pains me to do so, I have a slice of information that you may wish to cram into you proverbial couplet cave. As a subterranean citizen myself, I am privy to a plentiful selection of facts pertaining to under foot undertakings, and Salem, OR., strangely, is lounging astride of a doozy. You see, long before the European penetration of Salem's ample rump, the land was roamed by the people of the Kalapuya tribe. From grandad Kalapuyan to grandson Kalapuyan, a strange smelling legend was ahanded down. A legend now lost to the Zeitgeist. A legend, although cleansed from human memory, has left an echo in the mantle rocks, an echo only Barnaby's little ears can swallow. A legend of a river. A river that flows beneath the plains. A Brobdingnagian, globulous mass slowly weaving its sticky way under the Kalapuyan's millennia aged hunting grounds. It was said, this lumpy liquid pit was fueled by the bucket loads of hate and discourtesy that, over the centuries, had plagued Kalapuyan society; a porridgey, contempt filled cable. But it seems that this is legend no more. Judging by Argos's ravings, it would appear the river has once again been tapped. A stinky geyser has erupted beneath the very bed box in which the Brut lay their melody riven brain bags. You see, my cyber sweetie, the very 'sausage gravy' with which Mr. Argos has filled his hotel room bath is none other than the concentrated liquid hate the Kalapuyans chronicled those many centuries ago. Each morning, whilst settling down to gobble his"morning hit" he is unknowingly filling his guts with fifteen centuries worth of ill feeling. Sausage gravy is, in fact, part of a huge psychomagnotheric slime flow that's been collecting under the city of Salem.
Don't get me started about the painting in the lobby.
yours with all new cheap moves