Wondering all the time: are those bastard microscopic eggs incubating to the point of swelling to the point of splitting and sending worms whose ancestors grew up in the belly of a plough-pulling ox into my part-blue-blood, all air-conditioned and vaccinated and pasteurized and first-worlded small intestine coils? Right now, as I write, not eight inches from this useless hand and these more useless words?
I will assault them with car-hot vodka, antibiotics, and White Horse whiskey.
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