… even though we ain't got scratch …
To: The Boss
Date: August 15
Since taking Sloth’s room, I’ve nosed around and learned a lot about him:
Sloth hangs on branches and seldom comes down. He rarely touches the ground. He is high all the time, a hanger, like a hanger-on. Perhaps he would be a social climber but he shits upside-down. Tords away! He walks upside-down. From branch to branch, feeding on buds, leaves, and twigs, he resembles a few other people I know who also walk upside-down in and out of my life. Or is it the other way around? I no longer know for certain. They live on Bud after Bud, moving about ass-first. Be still, Sloth! Little green plants grow in thy fur and make thee resemble the branch thee dwells in. Hey, Stumpy, you look like a mould! A green cheese for a rat. A tree-climbing rat. Hey, lazy, stoned to the gills, wake up! You silly mass of fat fastened by twenty claws, you turd with a snout, you great green linen sale!
When Sloth lived in the apartment, he drank Bud all the time. He was always high. His skin was green and he was fat. His mother was a skunk, his father a raccoon. The floors were so cluttered he had little choice but walk on the ceiling. Too lazy to frog, he masturbated once a day. Had he become any lazier, they would have had to do it for him. His pad smelled of the cat and rotten potatoes. Sloth had shaggy hair. Shaggy oily hair with dandruff. He hated soap and lived beside his television. Sloth grunted. You know him, too. You know his gray Tee-shirt, his suspenders or overalls. He hangs like a hornets’ nest or a bomb or a light bulb. His faucet drips. His nose runs. Piggly Wiggly was his uncle. Nobody really dislikes him – he’s done nothing to incite them. Still, they just find him offensive.
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