Two armies charge at each other, swords raised, spears and shields equipped, their battle cries ringing throughout the barren field. But no one remembers how to use their weapons and just sort of runs into each other. No one dies of stab wounds or dismemberment, but merely from exhaustion due to running into each other over and over.
I passed a pill bug that was stuck on its back, and without thinking, I bent over and flipped him. If it could talk, it would have probably thanked me, but I felt really good about it anyway. That’s why I think I should be the next president of the United States.
The name's Tim. Nice to meet you, maybe.
I play guitar, sing silly songs, write stuff, draw shitty pictures and make people on the Internet mad on a professional level. I drink a lot of tea and write letters to pen pals. I also think about death a lot.
I finally think that I’ve won. I’ve overcome the great United States army with my own army of billions and billions of tater tots, until they reveal in one last battle their own army of tater tots. Thousands upon thousands of tater tots are flung through the air, colliding with each other and exploding in all their sweet deliciousness. Their messy carcasses clump on the ground, and soon, the entire battlefield is one flattened spud.
I gaze upon the wreckage, and the carnage, and weep silently. I never asked for any of this.
That’s it. That’s the final straw.
I left a half-full can of Shasta Tiki Punch in my living room before I went to the store with my nephew. Upon my return, the can was covered in the most foul summertime beasts known to man:
Ants.
Everywhere, just… ants. Feasting on my precious drink, taking it as if they had not the slightest bit of respect for me, though I’ve let them live in peace for years.
No, now times have changed.
I’m currently devising a plan of attack to the ants’ home base, which intel has placed not too far from our home base. It will require the utmost effort on all of our parts, but I think we can do this.
Men. We attack at dawn.
Sometimes I don’t like living where I live.
I mean, it’s still June, right?
So why am I hearing fireworks? Because I keep thinking they’re gunshots, and it’s not the business.
People. Stop. I don’t want to run down to my trenches and grab my M16 every time I hear your damn bottle rockets.
HOW TO WIN A POKE WAR
Don’t die first.
(This message has been brought to you by the Foundation for a Shorter Life)
