With all of the Wespeaks recently circulating about the crime of body odor, the imperative of cleaning up “after” oneself, and the inappropriate existence of sandals, I have to say I’m glad that these criticisms TOTALLY don’t apply to me. I am so sparklingly, glitteringly clean, baby, that when birds fly by me, they become clean as well.
If you have passed by a particularly clean bird recently, you can bet I was nearby. Birds don’t stay clean for very long. I am so horrified by the sight of my OWN feet, that regardless of the heat or the pleasures of spring, I wear boots covered in garbage bags wrapped up in packing tape. To avoid the possibility of making any errors in cleaning up after my (s)elf, I don’t move to begin with. I am, to put it modestly, simply a gleaming beacon of freshly scrubbed, motionless, invisible-footed cleanliness. I don’t know about everyone else, but I am so glad that I was spared judgment in the recent parade of searing lambastes directed at one and all.
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