Popo the Pocket Monkey. Looking good on his swing. Good and happy. Happy Popo, you little guy. You little monkey. You vacant eyed little crap flinger. I want to smash you in a way I have never smashed anything in my life. Your stupid swing. Your prehensile tail.
Who am I kidding? I can't keep this up. I can't keep reviewing products.
Aw hell, I don't know what it is. I want to blame DaveyMatt, but we always blame others when the real problem is us, its us on the inside.
We are the real crap flingers, making our zoo glass all dirty, wondering all the time why our hands stink so bad, and never just listening to that little voice in our hearts, the one whispering to us, "Hey, its ok. Its not so bad. Just stop doing that, okay? Stop throwing your poop. People paid money to look at you through the glass. Eat this iceburg lettuce."
So we soldier on, we keep going; what choice do we have? What huge pocket on what huge pair of pants could Popo really fit in?
And Popo wants us to be happy. He shows us this in how he uses the box to speak to us directly.
"Hi!", he says. Listen to my shriek. Watch me rock......slowly. My tail makes a cirde. Now, don't wait, don't give in to sadness, lets have fun together.
Its tempting too. To just accept Popo and his gentle back and forth rocking. Its so slow. So dot dot slow.
But the voice beneath the soothing one, the voice that really knows the score, screams at you to wake up: Idiot! You'll never review products for a living! You'll never have four followers! And what the hell is a cirde, Popo?
What the hell is a cirde???
And when you do wake up, you realize nothing about any of it is funny. Its just you in front of your computer, your chubby fingers keep hitting two keys at the same time, and Popo's swaying is the ominous shuffle of ever approaching twilight.