Normally, this would be a zany post where you craft mittens
out of live scurrying marmots, marmots that perpetually shift and rearrange on
your hands so that they're never too hot, never too cold, always juuuuust
right. These marmots would be bulky when
it suited your needs, and then absent when digital articulation is required.
These marmots exist in a god damn fantasy world.
The reality is that you are a sick fucking weirdo who crams
his hands up the rectums of dead marmots and then calls them "mittens."
Today you're going to go hunting for a new pair - the ones
you've been wearing for the last few months are all maggoty and stinky. It's a real turn off for the ladies you meet
at da club. That means going to the
mountain with your boomerang and trying to boomerang up some marmots.
In related news, this afternoon you'll die tumbling from a
cliff when your boomerang strikes you in the face as marmots surround your
ankles, gnawing them, a constant shifting mass of fearless fur and bone and
muscle driving you to the longest minute of your life. The end result: happier marmots, which means
happier people in general.
Congratulations Man with Marmot Mittens!
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