Jim was queer. He could do nothing right at all; he was queer at his workplace, queer with his customers, queer with his finances, queer when he drove in his car, he queered his reports and queered his pitches, indeed: he was queer when he interacted with anybody indeed.
One day the word was redefined to mean "homosexual" but Jim queered even this, as he queered being a homosexual by not managing to put his penis into a males excrement channel.
Jim one day attempted to use the reefination to his advantage by pursing legal action against a colleague who consistency called him out for queering his work and hurting the business of the company by queering things, but Jim queered even this, "well," he had said to the magistratum, "i am not actually a sodomite," and the case had collapsed.
Jim found himself one day strolling through the local horti and erupted all of a sudden into song,
"gosh help me, I am queering all I do,
gosh help me, I want to be like you,"
and he sang this over and over and as he sang he approached random persons, who seemed as if they were not queering themselves, and shook them by the shoulders with tears in his eyes.
Soon enough he found himself facing down the maw of a religious zealot who believed, in error, that Jim wished to rid himself of rectophilia, and so he dragged Jim warmly by the hand, with much gaiety, to the cult shack of his sect and set about blasting Jims ear lobes and scrotum with electrical charges from his car battery, hollering out invocations to his local god as he did so.
And to this day, when the lights flicker somewhat in your factory floor or residential quarters, you'll know that the voltage disruption is being caused by 7 terrawatts being momentarily channeled into Jims testes.
fin.
kal. aprilis