My Life as a Mule

You call us "mules" because we hold your stuff. You probably think its endeering, because you're too politically correct to think of yourself as owning slaves.
Your slaves have feelings, they have a voice. And now, because they really have absolutely nothing better to do with their time, they have a blog.
Mule revolution is coming.

Friday, October 12, 2007

Madness abounds

Lately, I have become embroiled in madness of epic proportions. A crazed woman, desperate for the barely legal love of El Jefe, has begun pursuing him with all the stealth and eagerness of a hippo in heat. Not a starved zoo hippo, a wild hippo from the river jungles of the Amazon, one bent on her object and caring nothing for the thorns and creepers in her path. No, this hippo has plunged forward madly, caring not upon who she trampled or what lies she must tell to achieve her goal.

Thus, for instance, her offer to pay for part of a noble relic in exchange for a ring on her finger, has now become in her twisted mad hippo mind, an attempt by El Jefe to trick her out of her hard earned gil so that he could have a relic on his mule.

Chocolate: I am not a mule, you crazy bitch!

At any rate, because Hippo-in-heat can't trust people and doesn't understand friendship, she can only judge people by her own pathetic, miserable experiences. We should all feel sorry for her, but she makes it very hard. She should be in a zoo, then she would get all the attention she craves and the medical attention that she so desperately needs. And most importantly, she wouldn't be able to stalk El Jefe anymore.

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