— rabatjoie

décembre 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.