Some of you may have noticed that Bob finally posted something new after
a few months. Kinda weird, I thought he was in prison (AGAIN) and had an
office pool going where folks could pick the day he would get released
and what he was in prison for.
Sadly, that wasn't the case. I had to return all the money to my
co-workers and they were really upset since they're not paid much so off
they went to their tiny, dimly lit cubicles, wondering how they were
going to pay the water bill next month as well as fill the gaping maws
of the 4-5 rugrats they have sitting at home.
For all of here at theweirdcrap, we would like to say "THANKS" to Bob
for fucking up all our lives as only he can do.
What's even worse is he comes back and talks about Twitter and how it's
so fucking great and how he's addicted and all sorts of other Twitter
shit. Stuff like that makes the other office drones feel even better
about their lives. Me, I could care less since I'm set for life. I'm
just trying to think about those small, inconsequential people that Bob
doesn't give a damn about.
Some of you may be asking if I'm caught up in that Twitter thing. Hell,
no! I posted one thing just to make fun of Bob. I have no followers or
whatever they're called and I'm happy about it!
Holy shit! It just dawned on me! I STILL HATE BOB!
Thank you! Thank you all!
Ok, I won't end it like that since some of you might be wondering why I
don't work and how I've amassed my fortune since that's what I promised
this column would be about. Not that I've kept promises before, but this
time I will because it seems like the right thing to do. At least this
You see, I was born many, many years ago with very long and slender
fingers. The nuns thought I was an angel. They weren't smart nuns, but
had this odd finger-fetish so I just went with it.
When I was able to do things with my hands, they put me to work. First
thing they had me do was shampoo hair since that would keep my fingers
clean and soft which was very important to them. I went with this also.
After I had mastered the art of shampooing, they had me pump gas at a
local station. This would keep my fingers soft but also develop just a
smidgen of hardness. I went with this because I was paid with Hostess
Gas pumping was soon mastered and they next sent me to a local women's
group where I learned the fine art of quilting, which I took to quite
naturally of course, due to my long slender fingers. I went with this
since it got me away from the gas fumes and, since I was only three
years old, I was rewarded with each quilt I finished with a healthy dose
of good ole breast feeding.
The women's group eventually petered out since they all died within the
next few years of old age and the nunnery had been closed so I was
forced to go out on my own.
Living on worms and grass, I spent the next few years quilting anything
I could. Rocks, grass, ants, broken glass, roadkill, tire remnants,
windchimes....whatever I could get my tiny hands on.
Soon people noticed the tiny lad sitting on the corner, quilting like
there was no tomorrow. They were intoxicated by this sight, and would
have been even more intoxicated but liquor had been banned so they had
to find something to get them even the teensiest bit high.
I was that something and I quilted and quilted and quilted. When I was
done, I quilted some more. Soon the folks were leaving me money just to
watch me work and then they were buying my quilts.
People from all over the world came to that corner to see that boy
wonder quilt. They'd throw me a quilt and I quilt something out of that.
Needed someone taken out, but didn't want it getting back to you? I
could handle that by quilting a live body into something not even
remotely resembling a human.
The big war came and I was sent overseas. I was deployed to a muddy
foxhole where I quilted things so hideous, the enemy could only scream
and run away when I flung the finished item out of the hole. That's how
we won the war. Fuck the history books. They know nothing!
There was peace and then another war and I was back out there quilting
like there was no tomorrow. More peace then another, more peace and then
I discovered the beauty of drugs during this last war and in a moment of
blissed out heaven, I climbed out of my foxhole and the top of my head
was blown completely off by a sniper. As my brains began tumbling out, I
quilted them and saved my life. I then gathered up the fragments of my
skull lying on the ground, grabbed some leaves and quilted and handy
I came back a hero and was paid handsomely by the guvment for going
above and beyond the call of duty for 3 1/2 wars. They promised me that
I would never have to work again and then gave me a shiny medal which is
display proudly on my mishappen head.
So there you have it. I made my enormous wealth by quilting. And I
support it by selling drugs.
Just kidding about that last part!
COMING NEXT: The blasted thing won't come off!