Sears! Just in case.... I didn't forget....
YOU SUCK!!!!!!
Black Friday (fucking stupid name if you ask me, and I don't really give a fuck if you do) is coming up! Just want to do my part in telling anyone who happens upon my blog to stay the fuck away from your ass because you guys suck serious ass in customer service.
You hear that? SEARS S E A R S YO YO YO!!!
SUCKS SERIOUS ASS...
...and that's pretty bad.
You have a company that backs fraudulent activities on part of your direct and contracted employees, and because of that... yes... Sears... you do... suck some serious ass.
You are gross and deserve no patronage from anyone.... except maybe some rag-head, middle-eastern fuckers.
Now... where the FUCK was I?
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Tesh 1
In the approaching dusk of the third day I felt the distinct known click of my sanity plummeting over the edge of the abyss. Not that I minded any of that because it made my literal analysis of reality skewed beyond any recognition, and that was just the curse my brain needed to keep me alive from thence forth.
Mt. Hebron Villa had been dark for many years. I suffered in this darkness during the most sunny days and moonlit nights. Cursed with just enough affluence to remain in comfort and to belay any thought or attempt I might have at following one of many a pipe dream I constructed for over seven decades now.
My curse had been complete. I was the last of everyone. I lost everything I loved or cared about; or at least as close as I could come to such defined feelings. I used to ponder the concept of what it would be like to endure the loss of your children before you yourself have expired. It’s worse than my nightmares instructed. Sanity remains. Sanity remains as everything else around you wilts faster and faster. A crisp, scooped out, empty shell is all that remains. The shell smells of something just slightly unpleasant, and nothing more. Your mind remains sharp enough. Sharp enough to be able to slice its own existence into many tiny shreds of very clear and painful memory.
I would sit at Mt. Hebron contemplating the good fortune of my virility when I met Teshmeque.
Teshmeque was of avian decent, I think. He had all the outward appearances of a bird, though he never flew really; he sort of lurch-crashed. That’s the best I can describe it. He had wings, but they didn’t function properly. I think he was the way he was because he was meant to be a harbinger; my harbinger, and then my vessel. He would be my vessel to another, long-awaited life… or absolute death. Either of which was fine by me.
I sat in the garden at Mt. Hebron, soaked in Dickle, cursing any god that cared to listen these days and pissing off the neighbors in the process, when Teshmeque came waddling across the lawn at me. I looked queerly at the approaching sight, then at the level of Dickle remaining in my still iced glass, then back at this avian apparition approaching me. My mind wandered back to a parrot I once owned. Dionysus was his name. He was appropriated to outlive my existence as well, but nevertheless beat my children to his grave.
Teshmeque, whose name at that time was unknown to me of course, approached closer with the freakishness of a Japanese dark horror film.
I cocked my head in wonderment; mildly panicked, amused and hoping this oddity would kill me all at the same time.
As if in answer to my thoughts the fucking bird said, “Teshmeque! Here for you!”
He paused now, just before me, on the edge of the patio. He hopped, sort of, onto a raised brick that surrounded my in-ground pool.
“The fuck?” I asked to no one in particular.
“Teshmeque! Here for you!”
I gazed at my glass again. I started to laugh in happiness, thinking the buzz I had managed in conjunction with the shit I had smoked a short time ago had concocted this strange hallucination before me now. Like a controlled dream in an early morning hour, I decided that day to interact with the thing.
“You’re one ugly fucking, gimped up excuse for a bird,” I said to the thing.
“Fuck you! Teshmeque! Here for you!” it says.
I laughed, truly amused, “I had a parrot once that used to say that in…” I was cut off.
“Dionysus!” it said and cocked its head. It made a coughing sound, stared and blinked. The pain of a memory flowed through my body upon hearing this name of the dead spoken aloud. My heart fluttered and I prayed, like I had thousands of times before, that my heart would implode and end my misery. It didn’t, just like it hadn’t the previous thousands of times. I glanced at my glass again and grabbing it, downed the remainder of the beautiful caramel colored liquid.
More violently than my mind seemed to plan I replied once again, “FUCK-A-YOU BIRD!!!”
It shit. It stumbled closer to me, off of the raised brick by the water’s edge where it stumbled (if a bird could stumble) and almost fell in the cold water. I hoped in that moment that it would. Maybe I’d fall in upon it. Make sure it died; whatever the fuck this thing was. This fucking Teshmagoogee thing! This fucking cursed winged beast.
OHHH! The presence of any one of many heralded gods could not befriend me in all of over seven decades, but one fucked up tainted bird can?!!! What madness was this?!
“Be gone you fucked up cretin! You surely don’t please me by your presence here, and serve no purpose. FUCK-A-YOU! Though mildly amusing, I gotta ask that you get the fuck outta here!” I ordered the bird-thing.
It made a chuckling noise and simply replied with, “Teshmeque! Sphincter boner!!!”
“Ok then,” I submitted, “Come on in,” and I guided the stumbling fucked up bird into the house.
Mt. Hebron Villa had been dark for many years. I suffered in this darkness during the most sunny days and moonlit nights. Cursed with just enough affluence to remain in comfort and to belay any thought or attempt I might have at following one of many a pipe dream I constructed for over seven decades now.
My curse had been complete. I was the last of everyone. I lost everything I loved or cared about; or at least as close as I could come to such defined feelings. I used to ponder the concept of what it would be like to endure the loss of your children before you yourself have expired. It’s worse than my nightmares instructed. Sanity remains. Sanity remains as everything else around you wilts faster and faster. A crisp, scooped out, empty shell is all that remains. The shell smells of something just slightly unpleasant, and nothing more. Your mind remains sharp enough. Sharp enough to be able to slice its own existence into many tiny shreds of very clear and painful memory.
I would sit at Mt. Hebron contemplating the good fortune of my virility when I met Teshmeque.
Teshmeque was of avian decent, I think. He had all the outward appearances of a bird, though he never flew really; he sort of lurch-crashed. That’s the best I can describe it. He had wings, but they didn’t function properly. I think he was the way he was because he was meant to be a harbinger; my harbinger, and then my vessel. He would be my vessel to another, long-awaited life… or absolute death. Either of which was fine by me.
I sat in the garden at Mt. Hebron, soaked in Dickle, cursing any god that cared to listen these days and pissing off the neighbors in the process, when Teshmeque came waddling across the lawn at me. I looked queerly at the approaching sight, then at the level of Dickle remaining in my still iced glass, then back at this avian apparition approaching me. My mind wandered back to a parrot I once owned. Dionysus was his name. He was appropriated to outlive my existence as well, but nevertheless beat my children to his grave.
Teshmeque, whose name at that time was unknown to me of course, approached closer with the freakishness of a Japanese dark horror film.
I cocked my head in wonderment; mildly panicked, amused and hoping this oddity would kill me all at the same time.
As if in answer to my thoughts the fucking bird said, “Teshmeque! Here for you!”
He paused now, just before me, on the edge of the patio. He hopped, sort of, onto a raised brick that surrounded my in-ground pool.
“The fuck?” I asked to no one in particular.
“Teshmeque! Here for you!”
I gazed at my glass again. I started to laugh in happiness, thinking the buzz I had managed in conjunction with the shit I had smoked a short time ago had concocted this strange hallucination before me now. Like a controlled dream in an early morning hour, I decided that day to interact with the thing.
“You’re one ugly fucking, gimped up excuse for a bird,” I said to the thing.
“Fuck you! Teshmeque! Here for you!” it says.
I laughed, truly amused, “I had a parrot once that used to say that in…” I was cut off.
“Dionysus!” it said and cocked its head. It made a coughing sound, stared and blinked. The pain of a memory flowed through my body upon hearing this name of the dead spoken aloud. My heart fluttered and I prayed, like I had thousands of times before, that my heart would implode and end my misery. It didn’t, just like it hadn’t the previous thousands of times. I glanced at my glass again and grabbing it, downed the remainder of the beautiful caramel colored liquid.
More violently than my mind seemed to plan I replied once again, “FUCK-A-YOU BIRD!!!”
It shit. It stumbled closer to me, off of the raised brick by the water’s edge where it stumbled (if a bird could stumble) and almost fell in the cold water. I hoped in that moment that it would. Maybe I’d fall in upon it. Make sure it died; whatever the fuck this thing was. This fucking Teshmagoogee thing! This fucking cursed winged beast.
OHHH! The presence of any one of many heralded gods could not befriend me in all of over seven decades, but one fucked up tainted bird can?!!! What madness was this?!
“Be gone you fucked up cretin! You surely don’t please me by your presence here, and serve no purpose. FUCK-A-YOU! Though mildly amusing, I gotta ask that you get the fuck outta here!” I ordered the bird-thing.
It made a chuckling noise and simply replied with, “Teshmeque! Sphincter boner!!!”
“Ok then,” I submitted, “Come on in,” and I guided the stumbling fucked up bird into the house.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Alas. Its here. November...
No shadow
No stars
No moon
No care
November
It only believes
In a pile of dead leaves
And a moon
That's the color of bone
No prayers for November
To linger longer
Stick your spoon in the wall
We'll slaughter them all
November has tied me
To an old dead tree
Get word to April
To rescue me
November's cold chain
Made of wet boots and rain
And shiny black ravens
On chimney smoke lanes
November seems odd
You're my firing squad
November
With my hair slicked back
With carrion shellac
With the blood from a pheasant
And the bone from a hare
Tied to the branches
Of a roebuck stag
Left to wave in the timber
Like a buck shot flag
Go away you rainsnout
Go away, blow your brains out
November
-T.Waits - a god.
No stars
No moon
No care
November
It only believes
In a pile of dead leaves
And a moon
That's the color of bone
No prayers for November
To linger longer
Stick your spoon in the wall
We'll slaughter them all
November has tied me
To an old dead tree
Get word to April
To rescue me
November's cold chain
Made of wet boots and rain
And shiny black ravens
On chimney smoke lanes
November seems odd
You're my firing squad
November
With my hair slicked back
With carrion shellac
With the blood from a pheasant
And the bone from a hare
Tied to the branches
Of a roebuck stag
Left to wave in the timber
Like a buck shot flag
Go away you rainsnout
Go away, blow your brains out
November
-T.Waits - a god.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Fuck Allah...
All I think I have to ask is this: What are we so fucking surprised about?!!
Who was the stupid jerk who put a MUSLIM named Nidal Malik Hasan (or ANY name for that matter) in that position?!!
We're a violent, hateful, vindictive, selfish species, and we're going to wipe out our own kind in the end.
Friday, October 9, 2009
The Ghosts of Something! (here we go...)
The Ghosts of Le Witt Bog
Back home I used to think I was into model railroading. In reality, my late father made a half-assed attempt at HO scale model railroading for some reason, and it affected me pretty much ever since. In dream; in nightmares. But, that’s pretty much how it always goes here in Darkgarden.
Back home I used to think I was into model railroading. In reality, my late father made a half-assed attempt at HO scale model railroading for some reason, and it affected me pretty much ever since. In dream; in nightmares. But, that’s pretty much how it always goes here in Darkgarden.
With the absolute fear of the upcoming winter, I’ve been scrambling for something to pass my time with. Something enjoyable, clean, succinct in application, and ,if nothing else, distracting.
I did some work on a local burglary of O scale model railroad cars and engines. Delving back into that world brought an amount of nostalgia; along with the aggravation of another felony probe. Like a drug, it seemed to seep back into my system.
So, what to do next. I got a subscription to Model Railroader (just like my father got back in the 70’s), and planned on visiting railroads around the area for inspiration. I noticed that in model railroading, you can agonize over the most minute detail as long as you want, and it will always just go to improve what you’re working on. This furthered my quest into delving back into a hobby that brings me memories as fond as possible from back in the day.
I’ll shoot you one now, though probably only my family would understand the finer details: Boring Saturday, and I go back downstairs to work on the LeWitt Bog addition. I’m not sure where pa is, but things are good anyway. I put Grand Funk Railroad, Survival on the record player and set to work. Grand Funk would be replaced by The New New Christy Minstrels album, and then I would usually put Grand Funk Survival back on. These two albums would be repeated over and over throughout the day-into-night. These were the fondest memories of model railroading for me.
The Le Witt Bog was never completed. People died, people moved on. It remained incomplete at the time everything was disassembled. It had been my first experiment with ground foam too. I recall a single spur that ran through the bog, but I’m not even sure if I ever had an engine traverse the line.
The original title of this entry was The Ghosts Of Cass Railroad, but I’m now changing the title. Just like the wind, when I write, shit sometimes swings around in another crazy direction, just as here. Then every now and then I start writing guttural shit that’s just hanging around in me… I’m guessing that’s what this is. We’ll see if it goes to blog, or just joins the rest of the misfits in my Unfinished Works section. Some mutha’fucka may make some money of my Unfinished Works shit, if anyone ever finds it.
Anyway, I’ve changed it to the Ghosts Of Le Witt Bog. It seems more appropriate now. I was going to describe to you a day I spent at Cass Railroad recently; my observations, thoughts and beliefs. Somehow, shit went south about the same time my fingers started dancing across these keys.
Now one could think that I failed in completing the Le Witt Bog expansion. I guess in specific terms I did fail. It was never completed, and I had no idea HOW to finish the fucking thing. I had a side spur with some fucking ground foam, and no fucking idea where to go from there.
We could take a look at the layout beside the Le Witt Bog section. There was a 4X8 section of some erratic shit going on, along with a poor turntable area, attached to another 4X8 section that included a mainline and a switch off into some area that I’m guessing was supposed to be a town. This area never came close to being finished either.
The layout remained destitute. No one rejoiced in any town. No train ever gave a triumphant steam whistle blast. No one ever shot the shit at some local general store; no switchman was ever seen waiting patiently. 
Oh if Art (Johnboy) was in for the weekend, you might see some minor cheer as perhaps General Lee and British soldiers were pulled around the mainline on a flatcar, but that’s all.
The layout remained cold from beginning to end. Grand Funk Railroad Survival and The New New Christy Minstrels being played over and over while I … While I what? I spent days down there. I don’t know what the fuck was going on, but I was down there, listening to the music repeat over and over; comforting; working on the Le Witt Bog… that was never finished.
My last thoughts now are remnants of the layout, pulled apart, and leaning against a cement basement wall. The house is empty and I sit on our fireplace hearth one last time, getting ready to leave for good.
It’s over. Time to go. The ghosts of Le Witt Bog; the ghosts of Jordan Drive! Are no more because we’re leaving.
No more ghosts, right?
They can stop visiting at any time.
Perhaps soon, I will log on again some time, and tell you the tale of my visit to another land of the dead… The Land of Cass Railroad!!! WOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
HAA!!! IT’S HALOWEEN MONTH AT DARKGARDEN!!!! COME ONE COME ALL!!!! BUT ONLY BRING YOUR DEEPEST, DARKEST, PERSONAL SHIT… OR DON’T COME AT ALL, BABY!!!
NOW! Go away! And don’t you dare look back!
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Soy Joy is that pathetic?
Soy Joy. Pathetic?
Now you all know my blog. All.... mmmm... what?.... 5 or 6 of you?
You know where I'm coming from (at least as much as I do when I write shit).
Silly, hopefully sometimes insightful stuff; random topics; unedited ramblings; colorful venting; delightfully mocking; even sometimes joyfully endearing (though at the moment that makes me want to hock a huge one in some hidden area of my house... no... Strike that... makes me want to hock a huge one in some hidden area in someone else's house of whom I am often prompted to be a fake-ass-mutha-fucka like most of us all have to be at one time or another.
Occasionally I look to see how many readers take a hit on my profile (figuring that a small percentage of those hits actually read my brain effluence).
So I did notice that one of the largest hit jumps (coinciding with my sincere smear of SEARS some time back) was for the latest slam-DUNK of that pathetic piece of cardboard poo-poo: SOY JOY!
With much glee I headed out back, taking with me a nice 2002 California wine, and called out the boys; trying to see if they may have been a part of the antic-profile-hits I received.
Jose was there, tenderly embracing Billy Zane (more to keep Billy from taking off on one of his hopping, hooping, hooting rampages he is known for around our town these days). Jose claimed Billy hadn't been near any of the computers in weeks. Billy's wide-eyed stare seemed to confirm this. He then whispered into Jose's ear at which point Jose let him go. Billy jumped in the air several feet to the side, but still in the bushes. He quickly glanced back and forth, dropped his pants, and while laughing with glee, urinated high into the air with a child-like, Christmas morning smile. There was happiness I needn't probe.
Muddy Waters, new to our crew, sat with purpose; strumming hypnotic alien tunes and sipping on Ancient Age. The look on his face made it clear that the answers I was in search of did not remotely include him.
Morgan Freeman gazed at me with contempt. He was annoyed to be called out for such an inquiry; especially because it is only his voice that remains an integral part of the back yard crew. I waited for his explanation, but like Muddy, his eyes told the story. They then panned over to Muddy. Soon there were ancient eyes, Ancient Age and Alien rhythms clouding the neighborhood.
I already checked on Micheal, who had been hanging out with Trevor and Lucas the past few weeks, working on some music; so I knew he was good.
This MUST mean... that.... (now laughing uncontrollably) ... that.... someone from the POO POO SOY JOY POO POO COMPANY (or agent thereof)... is reading The Realm Of Darkgarden!!!!
(I am now going to launch into a completely pathetic and loud period of laughing, spitting, farting, more laughing, slapping the backs of the backyard crew, more spitting and laughing, a fart or two more, more laughing and .. OH... a kick to one of the cats!!! SWEET!!!.. and then more laughing and spitting....)
This is just so awesome!!!!
There is sadness in this all:
I am of the realization that to get the most attention, you need negative related shock.
That, I sincerely feel, is sad.
... and I leave you with that.
Now you all know my blog. All.... mmmm... what?.... 5 or 6 of you?
You know where I'm coming from (at least as much as I do when I write shit).
Silly, hopefully sometimes insightful stuff; random topics; unedited ramblings; colorful venting; delightfully mocking; even sometimes joyfully endearing (though at the moment that makes me want to hock a huge one in some hidden area of my house... no... Strike that... makes me want to hock a huge one in some hidden area in someone else's house of whom I am often prompted to be a fake-ass-mutha-fucka like most of us all have to be at one time or another.
Occasionally I look to see how many readers take a hit on my profile (figuring that a small percentage of those hits actually read my brain effluence).
So I did notice that one of the largest hit jumps (coinciding with my sincere smear of SEARS some time back) was for the latest slam-DUNK of that pathetic piece of cardboard poo-poo: SOY JOY!
With much glee I headed out back, taking with me a nice 2002 California wine, and called out the boys; trying to see if they may have been a part of the antic-profile-hits I received.
Jose was there, tenderly embracing Billy Zane (more to keep Billy from taking off on one of his hopping, hooping, hooting rampages he is known for around our town these days). Jose claimed Billy hadn't been near any of the computers in weeks. Billy's wide-eyed stare seemed to confirm this. He then whispered into Jose's ear at which point Jose let him go. Billy jumped in the air several feet to the side, but still in the bushes. He quickly glanced back and forth, dropped his pants, and while laughing with glee, urinated high into the air with a child-like, Christmas morning smile. There was happiness I needn't probe.
Muddy Waters, new to our crew, sat with purpose; strumming hypnotic alien tunes and sipping on Ancient Age. The look on his face made it clear that the answers I was in search of did not remotely include him.
Morgan Freeman gazed at me with contempt. He was annoyed to be called out for such an inquiry; especially because it is only his voice that remains an integral part of the back yard crew. I waited for his explanation, but like Muddy, his eyes told the story. They then panned over to Muddy. Soon there were ancient eyes, Ancient Age and Alien rhythms clouding the neighborhood.
I already checked on Micheal, who had been hanging out with Trevor and Lucas the past few weeks, working on some music; so I knew he was good.
This MUST mean... that.... (now laughing uncontrollably) ... that.... someone from the POO POO SOY JOY POO POO COMPANY (or agent thereof)... is reading The Realm Of Darkgarden!!!!
(I am now going to launch into a completely pathetic and loud period of laughing, spitting, farting, more laughing, slapping the backs of the backyard crew, more spitting and laughing, a fart or two more, more laughing and .. OH... a kick to one of the cats!!! SWEET!!!.. and then more laughing and spitting....)
This is just so awesome!!!!
There is sadness in this all:
I am of the realization that to get the most attention, you need negative related shock.
That, I sincerely feel, is sad.
... and I leave you with that.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Soyjoy... Joy? Good Times?....NO JOY!
Ok... so its been awhile. You know... these days.... You think I really give a shit?
Right!
Thats why my faithful ones still mill about... some of the more hard-core down there in the basements and sub-basements and deeper areas where various characters hang out and inter-mingle and talk about the stuff beyond our constant grinding evolutionary process... BUT enough of that...
We're here today because of SOYJOY!!!! Doesn't it wanna make you have a mutha fuckin' party just over the name?!!! Does it not???? SOY JOY!!!! The JOY of SOY!!! I have SOY and I'm overJOYed cause I'm gonna visit my family and bring all the little tots one SOY JOY each!!! WOOT! for Soy!!! YAHOOO for SOY JOY!!! I'm going to take a SOY JOY and cram it up my ass while I stroke my fucking dick to orgasm!!!! I'm'a have some SERIOUS FUCKING JOY with my SOY, BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This all started when I heard a commercial one night for SOY JOY thinking it was Morgan Freeman narrating. This in turn made me think (as THEY wanted me to) that I had to go eat a SOY JOY at the next opportune time. (It also made me wonder when he left the back yard without asking me.) Even before I got my hands on one, Ms. Dark told me that I'd be disappointed. Convinced that my dear friend hanging out in my back yard would never steer me wrong, I thought her to be in err.
Then my world fell.
One day not to far in our normally perceived past, I purchased a singular SOY JOY and transported it back to my home place in preparation of the perfect period to partake of this pressed piece of joyful perfection. (HEE)
When the time came, I approached the wafe with a spot of cold milk.
I partook.
I chewed.
SOYJOY... mmm ... mm?
Well... Ok... It was nicely tasting pressed SOY substance... but...was missing... the JOY.
There was a definitive absence of any semblance of tenance toward any type of JOY.
SOYJOY was nothing more than an undersized piece of mediocre-tasting pressed solidness that was slightly over baked.
Only this and nothing more.
Luckily at that same time I realized that my dearest Morgan had nothing in it. He sat in my bushes, silent and in tears. I tried to hide the face, but he knew I already thought he was the orator of the gawdawful commercial joyously rejoicing such a fine bean.
A bean that should sever its pumping heart from that which they call .... SOY JOY.
Leave it be. There on the shelf under the coat of dust that is already forming upon the package.
Let it die and rot in perfect peace. Let it have peace. Let it end in peace.
In regular corporate English...
Soyjoy is burned/overcooked. The flavor is not pleasing. The portion is pathetic. The price is ridiculously inflated. It is a very poor choice for a nutritional bar of any type.
Right!
Thats why my faithful ones still mill about... some of the more hard-core down there in the basements and sub-basements and deeper areas where various characters hang out and inter-mingle and talk about the stuff beyond our constant grinding evolutionary process... BUT enough of that...
We're here today because of SOYJOY!!!! Doesn't it wanna make you have a mutha fuckin' party just over the name?!!! Does it not???? SOY JOY!!!! The JOY of SOY!!! I have SOY and I'm overJOYed cause I'm gonna visit my family and bring all the little tots one SOY JOY each!!! WOOT! for Soy!!! YAHOOO for SOY JOY!!! I'm going to take a SOY JOY and cram it up my ass while I stroke my fucking dick to orgasm!!!! I'm'a have some SERIOUS FUCKING JOY with my SOY, BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!This all started when I heard a commercial one night for SOY JOY thinking it was Morgan Freeman narrating. This in turn made me think (as THEY wanted me to) that I had to go eat a SOY JOY at the next opportune time. (It also made me wonder when he left the back yard without asking me.) Even before I got my hands on one, Ms. Dark told me that I'd be disappointed. Convinced that my dear friend hanging out in my back yard would never steer me wrong, I thought her to be in err.
Then my world fell.
One day not to far in our normally perceived past, I purchased a singular SOY JOY and transported it back to my home place in preparation of the perfect period to partake of this pressed piece of joyful perfection. (HEE)
When the time came, I approached the wafe with a spot of cold milk.
I partook.
I chewed.
SOYJOY... mmm ... mm?
Well... Ok... It was nicely tasting pressed SOY substance... but...was missing... the JOY.
There was a definitive absence of any semblance of tenance toward any type of JOY.
SOYJOY was nothing more than an undersized piece of mediocre-tasting pressed solidness that was slightly over baked.
Only this and nothing more.
Luckily at that same time I realized that my dearest Morgan had nothing in it. He sat in my bushes, silent and in tears. I tried to hide the face, but he knew I already thought he was the orator of the gawdawful commercial joyously rejoicing such a fine bean.
A bean that should sever its pumping heart from that which they call .... SOY JOY.
Leave it be. There on the shelf under the coat of dust that is already forming upon the package.
Let it die and rot in perfect peace. Let it have peace. Let it end in peace.
In regular corporate English...
Soyjoy is burned/overcooked. The flavor is not pleasing. The portion is pathetic. The price is ridiculously inflated. It is a very poor choice for a nutritional bar of any type.
Frankly, it makes me think I'm eating a nicely squared off piece of shit, prepared by someone with unique hemorrhoids, eating a diet of nuts, soy and fruit. 
Go away now.
Go away now.
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