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A Death Threat to the Arby's Oven Glove
Listen to me, oven glove.
There will come a time, an unspecified time in the future, when a figure will appear out of the darkness and rain down upon you with awesome and holy vengeance.
That figure? It'll be me.
Because I hate you. I hate you perfectly and beautifully, like a poem. Except this poem is about lighting you on fire and putting you out, and then submerging you in a shallow kiddie pool for five minutes at a time before taking you out and alternately cursing at you and crying for about fifteen minutes.
The next stanza of this poem, which is about your death, is about how I would rather listen to a Joseph Conrad novel on tape, read by Snuggle the Fabric Softener Bear, than endure one more thirty second spot featuring your Tom Arnold voice-talent and buggy little eyes. Eyes that will be dealt with in ways that you cannot possibly imagine, pok--
*REST OF POST DELETED IN THE INTEREST OF TASTE*
posted by
kafkaesque @
10:16 PM
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Tuesday, July 22, 2003 |
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