Life is a Beautiful Thing (4-Book Box Set) by Harmon Cooper

Author:Harmon Cooper [Cooper, Harmon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boycott Books
Published: 2016-02-06T00:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN∞

My lungs are filled with fresh air yet the pollute still lingers. Jailbait or clickbait – which will it be? Aldous Huxley lend me your bicycle! I say these words from 2083 with the hopes that people will remember me.

A movement. Behind me a movement sends a shudder down my spine. The darkness has returned! What is this darkness, this black hole, this overbearing feeling of dark matter drifting towards me? What is the darkness inside us that inspires us and conspires with us and berates us with these evil thoughts we collectively share?

(Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Wo ist meine mutti?)

The door knob looms like a shrunken nipple in the abyss. All doors must eventually be opened, including this door, a door that leads to something, something possibly sinister or possibly heavenly. Can there be an in-between? Why must things be demarcated as such? What better way to accept life than realize it’s simply purgatory?

I twist, but the knob doesn’t twist back.

Locked! I slam my shoulder into the door and the hinges creak. Abbacadabra! Another shoulder and the doorframe splinters. Open sesame! Open Sez Me! I step back, hands on my knees as I gasp for breath. Damn Carloza’s body – I really need to switch before his extra breakfast taco-derived flab and lack of endurance gets the best of me and I have a heart episode.

Yo-heave-ho, yeoooooooo ho!

Another shoulder blade and the door responds, sending me face-first into a pyramid of ramen boxes. My God are they sharp! I scramble to stand but I’m more egg than man and my legs give way and my skin whittles away. I’m literally watching my skin rip off my body and stretch onto the floor like a cardboard whore. I’m literally being as literal as possible in a work of supposed literary merit. I’m literally reiterating what I’ve just said because the words have a way of ringing in my head and I’d rather talk instead of dealing with the girthy chick across the room in a rig.

Break free, compatriot!

The blob of a woman in front of me is five hundred kilos and counting, hyperventilating out of fear triggered by the Mexican man (me!) who has stormed her bedroom. Madoka’s ladyfriend? Hardly able to walk, this one. Methinks she rarely moves from her seated position in the VE rig all blobby and shit with lardy hunks of fat billowing out of her marshmallow rolls. To stand would be a triumph for this beast! A small step for gigawoman and a large leap for gigakind. Zing! The thousand pound club is alive in well and this woman is the female president and she is… she is…

Not Japanese? I’m more curious than she, both about the fecal smell quickly encapsulating me and the paunchy butterball porcine jelly belly. How does Madoka have sex with this meaty sweety? This thing is more quicksand than human!

“You are white!” I scream in horror, as if six hundred years of needless racism

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