No.114542
Back at the cabin. Smoke coming from nearby, smells like trash. I think I know which neighbor it is, Mr. Mails. Previously I've seen him burning what looks like trash. Even so, I hate him less than I hate all the other neighbors. He lives outside the city limit and probably believes himself to be a good person by disposing of trash in a way that is legal where he lives.
Awhile ago he came up to my cabin when I was just trying to get stoned in the sun, and politely griped about my landlords letting Collegiate Nancy boy retards who don't know how to hunt safely shoot into his land and leave their trash and shotgun shells around. I told him I didn't hunt here and that I'd tell landlord to call him, which landlord eventually did. Since I hate collegiate Nancy boy retards, i feel a sympathy for Mr. Mails. We both live next to the monstrous environmentally tragic ball sports facility the college has erupted from the land which used to be nice looking and free of plastic and chemicals.
Maybe I can engineer a Trash smokestack to funnel mr. Mails' trash smoke toward the Collegiate Sports Facility. But they would then send more of their Private Biplanes to spy on me. I wish I could get a contract with Elon Mosque to be able to shoot lasers into space and destroy space trash generated by his operations, allowing him to claim a Tax Credit from Donal Trump. If I had such lasers near my cabin, aimed straight up, the planes wouldnt be able to fly over my cabin.
No.114548
>>114542serves you right for living in idaho
No.114562
In the lunch line, Chris B stood with his small glasses and big belly, hungrily eyeing the Meatballs and Sloppy Spaghetti Sandwich With Nacho Cheese Fries. Kyle A was right behind, with a bigger belly. "Cutsies please, Chris B?" Kyle chanted, with an idiotic grin. On previous days, especially if it was something Boring like Chicken Spinach Salad , Chris had allowed Kyle to enact the Schoolyard Tradition of "Cutsies", ceding his place In line to the slower Kyle who was always having trouble collecting his school supplies and was never first in line. If it was just Chicken Spinach Salad, Chris didn't mind letting Kyle have the first Feast. Chicken Spinach Salad isn't even much of a Feast.
Today, as he glared through his small spectacles at the almost moronic Kyle, Chris had an almost demonic thought enter his mind . He smirked a bit as he adjusted his glasses and addressed the loud pig boy, "You can have my spot in line if you sell me your soul."
