That's Just the Beer Talking
A phalanx of abusers of CWEd Rimadyl gathered. To all outward appearances no more than an odd gaggle of bespectacled sots, mere mourners of the sliver of moon that has historically signaled a dangerous slide into the transfer of body heat and it's accompanying decline of interest in the usual wellspring of sadomasochistic experimentation. "Smooth and lift!" I cried. But that fell upon deaf ears in those days. And thereupon, those nagging proclivities which had until then been forsaken for a lifetime of gradual death, turned into hand-picked aversions, selected by their sequence-similarity - the criterion being how sharply and deeply their carbon-steel edges bit into the soul. Then when that became mundane, and by now worn only thinner from the dull weight we know as the decay of expectations, like being dumped a half hour before the prom, they became full-fledged mortifications to any hopes of happiness, and so they marched in lock-step to the drone of "That's Just The Beer Talking". And what follows here is a bit of what ensued.