"I want to play in a band," Bill Bakerton explains, "but nobody will accept me because I don't have the necessary attributes."
Bill Bakerton. Now here's a man who loves bands. He has always dreamed of being in one, but more than that, he has dreamed of becoming one. If you zoom in on any part of his face, you'll see a band. He plays the saxophone badly on purpose as an avant-garde act, but nobody appreciates it, so every night he weeps 70 pounds of tear gas into a special chamber in his house designated as the Weeping Chamber.
Bill Bakerton wails and moans with the sways of the tide, his saxophone gleaming in the moonlight, his coattails flapping in the breeze, as he flies over a mountaintop and up into the sky above all the clouds and into space, where he crowns himself king of the stars.
"Now I am the king of the stars," he boasts, "and bands are no longer a thing that I care about." I am boasting right now by writing this story. I am kicking you in the teeth by writing these words. Just take my word for it. Oh man, that sort of sounded like a joke or something, but I want you to know that I didn't mean it that way.
My gallbladder hurts. Maybe it's all the toxins I pumped into it. HAHAHA.
My tears flow like tears.
I don't really even know how I got here. All I've got are these two cylinders. I suppose they could be used as tools or something, but what kinds of tools are just cylinders? The answer is no kinds of tools. So I've got to figure out some sort of use for them. I could build something out of them, but then I'd need tools, and we've already been over that, so I guess that's just not even anything. Sorry, this is pretty tedious, I don't want to bother you with my problems like this. But you did decide to read this, and if you are going to continue reading it then you have to fucking commit to it, because I'm staunch and I hate you. Never mind.
Well, let me pretend I'm something else. I am going to tell you a story about a time I bought something from a person. The thing I bought was a dog. I guess you could call it a being or an animal or something, but the specific terminology doesn't really matter in this case. I think. The dog was about 14 years old and had no teeth and no legs and was blind. I took it home and gave it a soft pillow to lay on and fed it the best possible food, since it still had taste buds. Or at least I was left to assume it did. Sorry, this story is really bad, I'm going to slit my wrists.
JUST KIDDING. Sorry if you've slit your wrists before and I'm offending you by casually referring to it. I'm being way too cautious. Do you even know who I am? I am named Backstreet Boys Senior, the choir boy from the 18th century, and I own a pedestal on which I place different objects depending on some combination of my mood and the seasons. As the seasons change, so do the objects, do you get my drift? Right on. Oh, also my mood plays a roll in determining how and when it shifts. Sorry, this isn't really happening the way I want it to happen. So basically there's this pedestal with objects that are frequently replaced by other objects; today the object is a banana, yesterday the object was a flaming UFO. SO YOU NEVER REALLY KNOW WHAT IT'S GOING TO BE, I GUESS.
Alright, so I own a bus and I fucking drive it around and shit. You can go drown in a little puddle or something, because I don't even care about your well-being at all. I'm a bus driver. I have a Commercial Driver's License (CDL) and you probably don't, so I hope you're having a terrible time not having that, because I crave superiority and want to subordinate you.
