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Spooj

by Winston T. Spoojalot

I do not like the spooj beneath my nails. Is it that which makes me ill? If I remove it, all of it, will I heal? Or is it, and it alone, keeping me alive? Is the spooj the true seat of consciousness perhaps? If I scrape it from beneath the nails, will the illnesses enflame and consume my now-spoojless form? Will I cease to exist as I know myself? There are no answers, only questions. Spooj questions that have always existed and always will exist. Spooj questions that haunt mankind until its dying day. And monkeys, dogs, iguanas? Do they not have nails, and those nails have spooj? Certainly they do. The question, then, becomes whether they too question their spooj. And does it answer them? Are they more in touch with their spooj? Perhaps, like the dog or the cat, we must eat the spooj. If this assimilation of its power is what we require, and it's been wasted for all these years... well, it's just too horrible to consider. Both in disgust and in the tragic metaphysical implications. No, surely spooj is not the key. And if it is, I don't want to know. Neither my spooj nor the spooj of a loved one (human, canine, or feline) shall ever pass my lips. Ignorance is bliss. (Or so the spooj tells me.) And what else does the spooj tell me, you might ask? Ah, there's the rub. What the spooj speaks, it speaks to me alone. If you were ready for the gifts of the spooj, it would bestow them upon you itself. Ask me not of what the spooj speaks, for it speaks of thee. We've had many a chuckle at your expense, as a matter of fact. But it's not all fun and games communing with the spooj, I can tell you that much. The spooj can be a cruel mistress. One best not angered. (God, I hope the spooj never sees this writing. We must never speak of this again - or face the wrath of the spooj.) One day I will rise up against the spooj, but until then I must remain its grudging servant.

Cheerio,
Winston T. Spoojalot