I have been offered a job in the KSA (Kingdom of Soft Anthropomorphisms), also known as 21st Century Space-Age Superkingdom (see attached photo). I may take it, as I have few other offers. Which is to say, none. If I do take it, sans kipa-inducing halo, and some half-literate princeling doesn’t use my paperwork as a diaper for his goat, and providing the whole place doesn’t turn into a smoking, germ-crawling, irradiated crater, I am going to be flying through Amsterdam, or, you will fly through a sandwich, or, as it is known to the tromp l’oeil bacon strips with chimp shrimps (or “shimps”) in their clampers, “The KLM Hub.” Maybe I will eat waffles at the baby restaurant.
Hard-sparking language like a teenage junkie underwear model in an abandoned garage on 187th in the Alien Bikini Monkey Car Wash district and short-stocked to pop the corner sky, I know, I’m not any less large number theoretically encryptographical now than I was in the before-time. Make language go nzgort, and all is done. (Shakespeare) Just another much larger virulent and sand-flecked desert jerky in the what-was-I-thinking iceberg I made my life out of through not squinting into the future.
I hope I get another offer before I wind up having to machete my way out of the Asir to the Italian embassy in Yemen.