‘This is not a boomtown, boomtowns boom and rumble, bang and roar. This town simpers and whines, cowers and trembles, a not quite right in the head town. But this is where I live, where I hang my hats’ thought the man in the hat. When he wasn’t thinking thoughts such as these, which he thought more often than not, he was thinking about thinking them. Thinking about thinking took up much of his thoughts, so much so that thinking about anything else was next to impossible, and even if they were, it would be too painful to think about. He could ponder and muse, consider and mull over, but not think thoughts or things that remotely resembled a thought. ‘…thoughts are phooey’ thought the man in the hat thinking thoughts, ‘…plain and simple phooey’. ‘…I’d rather mull things over or consider…’ thought the man in the hat thinking he was not thinking but considering or mulling things over. ‘Where’s my gall darn hat?’
A overly-large man in a purple and red fez hurried by in a miniature car, his overly-fat arm slung out the car window. ‘Look at me!’ he hollered, the exposed skin between his shirt collar and head red as overly-ripe rhubarb. The man in the hat turned ever so slowly, his neck craning and whippling, and said ‘Who would have thought…a stray thought waiting to be snapped up, oh my, goodness me’. The overly-large man, head snapping to and fro, curb-parked his miniature car, squeezed himself out of the seat, his face reddening, eyes bulging like condom reservoirs, and fell face first onto the pavement. ‘A ha’ said the man in the hat, ‘…a ha indeed’. Scurrying like a dormouse, her folding table and knickknacks falling every which way, the harridan’s sister stopped to rebuckle her shoe, her face redder than red, and whispered ‘fuck a duck, what a way to start the day’.
A overly-large man in a purple and red fez hurried by in a miniature car, his overly-fat arm slung out the car window. ‘Look at me!’ he hollered, the exposed skin between his shirt collar and head red as overly-ripe rhubarb. The man in the hat turned ever so slowly, his neck craning and whippling, and said ‘Who would have thought…a stray thought waiting to be snapped up, oh my, goodness me’. The overly-large man, head snapping to and fro, curb-parked his miniature car, squeezed himself out of the seat, his face reddening, eyes bulging like condom reservoirs, and fell face first onto the pavement. ‘A ha’ said the man in the hat, ‘…a ha indeed’. Scurrying like a dormouse, her folding table and knickknacks falling every which way, the harridan’s sister stopped to rebuckle her shoe, her face redder than red, and whispered ‘fuck a duck, what a way to start the day’.
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