I Was a Slave of the Bongo Girls of Borneo

My unravelling was the result of a slowly acting poison: to no my bettors, to avoid the passive voice in the future, to unravel the knots on the Beagle.  We have descended with the apes for a couple million years, but just realized it yesterday, my fellow amoebas twice removed, my protoplasmic cousins, my mitocondrial mothers. Have your ears tingled to the whisper of god? Then, my child, wash your ears with a depilating soap. The sooner the bettor, five cents on the dollar. Before the joker gets a hardon. Radon, xenon, and

The bongo girls had worked their position to the point that money in the bank was worth next to nothing. Cash was no escape from their cauldron. Cash is a bug. And when there’s a short circuit in your bug underpants, god help you Henry Kissinger, and all you ilk.