Journal Rigor Morty's Journal: Killing Time...
In my last exciting adventure, I tested the journaling system at Slashdot to determine whether it was worth two farts in a hurricane. Not having arrived at any real conclusions, I decided to try it once more, with feeling.
I'm burning another day of my painfully short life wondering where all the god-damn crotch-monkeys that I have to deal with came from. I call them crotch-monkeys for a reason; they're no better than animals. They wander through life, aimlessly, responding to every shiny object and sharp stimulus with predictable results, greed and fear all around. Thinking is painful to them, you must assume, as they never seem to be able to hold a coherent thought for more than a second or so before the next shiny object they see breaks their train of thought.
And I'm stuck on a planet full of them, and forced to deal with their shit-flinging, mating rituals, and perversions of politics and commerce. Joy.
I'm burning another day of my painfully short life wondering where all the god-damn crotch-monkeys that I have to deal with came from. I call them crotch-monkeys for a reason; they're no better than animals. They wander through life, aimlessly, responding to every shiny object and sharp stimulus with predictable results, greed and fear all around. Thinking is painful to them, you must assume, as they never seem to be able to hold a coherent thought for more than a second or so before the next shiny object they see breaks their train of thought.
And I'm stuck on a planet full of them, and forced to deal with their shit-flinging, mating rituals, and perversions of politics and commerce. Joy.
