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Poe, Edgar Allan

The Masque of the Red Death, Edgar Allan Poe

This story is brought to you by a very nice man named Jake, who requested it a while ago, and when I read Philip K Dick instead last week, expressed some disappointment.

People of the internet and listeners of these stories, please know that I don’t handle disappointment well. If you ever want to bully me into giving you my lunch money, just tell me how disappointed in me you are.

Now that I think about it, given that it’s a big travel week in the land of the Great Grope, tonight’s story is all kinds of topical. While it’s widely understood as an allegory on the inevitability of the touch of death, I think instead one should think of the inevitability of, you know, the touching of, erm, junk.

Jake, my friend, you’re a genius.

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Categories
Poe, Edgar Allan

The Cask of Amontillado

So I read in the news today about the Indonesian macaque monkeys who’ve learned to successfully catch fish, and how exciting this is for biology, and how it’s a living and breathing example of the adaptation of a species to its conditions and environment, and really it was all astonishing stuff to read.

But for some reason all I could think was that these monkeys are capable of catching fish with their bare hands, and in the modern on-demand way we’d expect of them, when it takes me hours of unraveling knots and tying knots and waving a stick around in the water before, if I’m very very lucky, I manage to land anything more than ingredients for a muck-and-weed juice drink.

And then I snapped out of it and thought: huh, jealous of monkeys. Well, why not?

In other news, a killer thunderstorm knocked the power out twice before settling into the atmosphere needed for Poe regaleritics.

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