— rabatjoie

Archive
Dezember 2005

There is a mean poem about the Leid-Stadt, by a German man named Mr. Rilke. But we will not read it, because we are going to Happyville.

„Not butter? Then what the hell did I just eat?“ Spread.

„I still say it’s butter“ Spread.

„After all the damage you’ve done to this family with your habitual lying and deceit, you have the nerve to sit there with a straight face and tell me that this isn’t butter?“ Spread.

„I’m pretty sure that was butter“ Spread.

„I’m comfortable calling this butter“ Spread.

„This challenges everything I’ve come to believe about butter“ Spread.

„I’m not Entirely Sure it’s Edible“ Spread.

„I’m willing to suspend disbelief about this being butter for about as long as it takes me to eat this toast“ Spread.

„In the absence of actual butter, sure, I’ll play along“ Spread.

„I guess you could call it butter. If you don’t put any in your mouth“ Spread.

„From a distance, you’d swear it’s butter!“ Spread.

„I can’t believe it’s so flammable“ Spread.

„I have no reason to believe this isn’t butter“ Spread.

„Am I wrong about God too?“ Spread.

By Bob Shea

taken from McSweeney’s newsletter.

Oh, antville seems to be down.