jits

Son, it's just neural spasms, those thoughts in your mind are just the sound of your head revving, and head is still just body. Commit this to memory. Head is body. Brace yourself against my shoulders here for this hard news: you're a machine a body an object, no less than this rutilant Montclair, this coil of hose here or that rake there for the front yard's gravel or sweet Jesus this nasty fat spider flexing in its web over there up next to the rake-handle, see it? See it? Latrodectus mactans. Widow. Grab this racquet and move gracefully and feelingly over there and kill that widow for me, young sir. Go on. Make it say 'K.' Take no names. There's a lad. Here's to a spiderless section of communal garage. Ah.