It is with a heavy heart that I put finger to keyboard. You see I have lost my mind and I am not sure where.
Last night I put my hand down the back of the sofa to see if it had rolled there. Perhaps while I napped or masturbated to pornography. Alas my search only yielded the remains of a biscuit, some pennies and the charisma of Gordon Brown which momentarily adhered to my hand before combusting and singeing my waxed moustache.
Later I checked the fridge, which is often the depositary of lost or sundry items. There I discovered a small laughing whim and some sausages but no sign of my absent mind. In fact I may have lost more, as my combombulation disappeared leaving me discombobulated and sore.
Afterwards I imagined a world where men could read sighs and write on fancies. However I was jolted from my reverie by the arrival of a letter through my door hole. It was an invitation to the annual levitation feast; however I was feeling too heavy to attend so burned it on a pyre with some Y-fronts purchased in anger from a girl.
Still my mind eluded me, I could occasionally smell it. Lingering behind the smell of the whim but not distinct enough to make me see it. At that moment I doubted my own existence so telephoned my tailor and asked him "Dear tailor, do I exist?"
"That depends on the cut of your suit" he replied.
"My suit is coarse tweed but finely cut"
"Then you must exist, as only a man who exists can have a fine cut. A myth would be wearing course cut trousers but no jacket."
"Thank you" I said to the tailor and I placed the telephone back into its wooden box and nailed the lid shut.
Without thinking I snatched up my revolver and rushed into the drawing room where I fired it repeatedly at the mantelpiece, hoping to lure my mind down the chimney. Sadly, I only dislodged my late father's self worth which had become embedded in some soot.
Now I appeal to you. If you see my mind please lift it gently with sugar tongues before wrapping it in newspaper and sending it to my home where I will reward you with some shrieks. |
Stuff
