Unrelated to Stork,

As if the days were older than our baker, my family has passed to me an insolent tale of betrayal and loss, of love found and abandoned, of carbonated beverage cans held sidewise and splashing their contents across time, continents, and wooden desks. Continue onward but let us sway not your postponement of sanctimony and discussion of everlasting bonding substances.

GlueStrappy, the Schooner-of-Matches-with-Burnt-Heads, was known for his work detailing miniature cinder blocks (the sort that are required to build brick houses for aphids.) Nary a day would pass that he wouldn't create a block or two of such high quality that kings and diagrams would fall over themselves in their eagerness to own them; and each day the blocks would be more perfect than the last. His name was renowned, from home to town, and artisans from half a world away would often think to travel to him.

No one, however, had any idea where GlueStrappy lived, or where he worked. His blocks would be left in various places around the world, for those who wanted them to find.

But one day they stopped coming. There were no more GlueStrappy blocks. Kings sent their armies to war to get bricks that were already owned. People ate grapefruit. Somebody farted.

But after all, there were only so many blocks. They turned out, after everyone looked them over and thought about it, to be really stupid, useless, and, aside from that, of a shoddy nature. Who the hell, exactly, was building these homes for aphids? What good were these useless pieces of crap?

Kings sent their armies to war to leave sacks of blocks in each others countries, castles, and potty rooms. Harmony was wrecked, dalliance prevailed, and trees got pissed and went back into the ocean, where they were wrought. Gophers didn't realize any of this was going on. Keys are used for opening locks, sometimes.

As ages passed, the blocks were forgotten.

And then, last week, my uncle (or he's always said he's my uncle, but his last name is Squarch) found a huge sack of little, tiny cinder blocks in his driveway. On his car. The sack was heavy. My uncle Tumpy Squarch was pissed. He hired a construction crew, who brought the fucking blocks to me, because he assumed it HAD to be me, the only dumbass in the family who could possibly do something so stupid as to drop a sack of tiny, rotting blocks on his car.

So I have a fuckload of really ridiculously useless tiny cinder blocks to give away. Please reply:



Send me 12!


In the yard


I am GlueStrappy


Dip you


I have PacMan fever


I have a peach




I don't live here


64b with None




Easter Egg?


Sources: Unmarked


Scongnilbing, Nork oosilunk with tram