He is a walking pork pie, a doughy crust filled with gelatinous pig-meat and oil drippings. It is impossible for him to sneak up on anyone because you can hear his sodden feet gooshing in his fall-apart boat shoes. And even if you were deaf there is the stench, and my god he has a stench about him, a rancid stew of odors collected from various greasy diners and sweaty clothes, boiling and infusing in the nightmarish cauldron of his skin folds. It is as if someone found a pile of leavings in the alley behind a butcher shop and thought, Hello, let's put that in a dusty coat and call it a man.
When he speaks he dribbles and when he dribbles he sucks it back up, and he uses an uncommonly large amount of words with 's,' 'sh,' 'th,' and 'p.' More air and spit passes out of his yellowed maw than actual words. His speech frequently resembles that of a horse who decided to learn English and did a very poor job of it. And do not look at his mouth while he speaks, for if the sight of his mangled vaguely teeth-like objects do not cause you to run in the opposite direction, the putrid smell of fish and cigarette butts emanating from that horrid orifice will. Unless, of course, it causes you to pass out, in which case you should consider yourself lucky.
He doesn't so much bathe as get wrung out, the diminishing returns of a garbage sponge. His seven hairs leave an uncanny amount of dandruff on his rumpled shoulders, so much in fact that one might think he is constantly walking by the ends of weddings, or toiling in the salt mines. He always sports a sweaty sheen and a badly-tied necktie, though he never seems to be coming from anywhere or going to anyplace. He wears corduroy cargo pants.
He is the kind of man who arrives early, leaves late, and was never invited. In sum: He is a most wretched thing, an existence only found suitable when you consider science may learn something from him, if science will have progressed enough to do so. No, I do not care for him one bit.
When he speaks he dribbles and when he dribbles he sucks it back up, and he uses an uncommonly large amount of words with 's,' 'sh,' 'th,' and 'p.' More air and spit passes out of his yellowed maw than actual words. His speech frequently resembles that of a horse who decided to learn English and did a very poor job of it. And do not look at his mouth while he speaks, for if the sight of his mangled vaguely teeth-like objects do not cause you to run in the opposite direction, the putrid smell of fish and cigarette butts emanating from that horrid orifice will. Unless, of course, it causes you to pass out, in which case you should consider yourself lucky.
He doesn't so much bathe as get wrung out, the diminishing returns of a garbage sponge. His seven hairs leave an uncanny amount of dandruff on his rumpled shoulders, so much in fact that one might think he is constantly walking by the ends of weddings, or toiling in the salt mines. He always sports a sweaty sheen and a badly-tied necktie, though he never seems to be coming from anywhere or going to anyplace. He wears corduroy cargo pants.
He is the kind of man who arrives early, leaves late, and was never invited. In sum: He is a most wretched thing, an existence only found suitable when you consider science may learn something from him, if science will have progressed enough to do so. No, I do not care for him one bit.
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