Clive had recently invented an animal that he called a 'sand-eating sandeater' and having invented it he was now DETERMINED to have people think it was real and known. So he'd begun to drop as many mentions of them as he could into conversation, and to talk positively yet casually about them just as if they were a real animal.
'So I was at the beach right, and that's when I saw her, over to my right, on a towel, wearing a one piece swimsuit that somehow was sexier than any bikini, near a small colony of sand-eating sandeaters, her hair wet, but in that beautiful salty, unkept, raw beach way' he'd tell people when asked if he'd ever thought of cheating on his wife.
'I was at the bar last night, feeling terrible, trying not to bring everyone down, like a big bag of sand stolen from a colony of sand-eating sandeaters, but then we played darts and I felt better' he'd say to people when asked what his life was like now that his wife had left him, apparently because of some story he kept telling people.
'I was looking out the window melancholily one day, it had been a hard week, my teenage daughter had runaway from home and I found her living with a pimp on the WRONG side of the tracks, I'd discovered that the lump in my left thigh that I'd always thought was an inverted mole was instead an enormous and enormously aggressive tumor, I couldn't pay for medical care because my life savings had been stolen by an aggressively cumaugerous miscreant charlatan and as I'm looking through the glass of the window it occurred to me that glass used to BE sand, that's remarkable, to be glass it had to first avoid the prison of a surfers butt crack, it had to not get swept out to sea and end up the beach of some lame desert island, it had to not get eaten alive by a sand-eating sandeater, and having survived all that, it gets to be magically transformed from a course, granular yellow into a shiny clear glass, and in realizing that I realized I might be ok' he'd respond when people asked if his life was beginning to turn around yet.
Soon two things began to happen in Clive's life.
1. People began to worry about Clive's mental health. Yes his teenage daughter did live on the wrong side of the tracks with a pimp, but she didn't run away, Clive WAS that pimp. And he couldn't possibly have a thigh tumor because a pissed off father of one of his girls had chopped his legs off from just above his dick down using a grass eating grass cutter (also known as a lawnmower). And he didn't have windows, he lived in an abandoned submarine that had been washed inland by a recent tsunami. The same tsunami that had completely eradicated all the beaches making his beach story totally implausible.
2. People began to think sand-eating sandeaters were something that Clive had just made up.
3. Which they were.
4. Clive realized he had referred to the sand-eating sand eaters as being not-overthinking, and that had no idea why, making him think that perhaps he HADN'T made them up after all.
5. Clive was proven wrong about that, plus clearly he'd forgotten how to count.
6. And that ladies and gentleman is the story of how Clive decided to run for president.
7. Oh holy crap, I wrote that thinking it might wrap up this blog, but then I immediately realized that I could not possibly hate this more, fuck you Clive, this is all your fault, you're clearly a fucking asshole anyway.
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