Why is it so warm? It's been ten minutes.

Anyone who tells you not to judge a book by its cover is trying to hide something. The elements a person deliberately portrays in their external appearance can often lead an observer to reasonable guesses on why this facade was chosen, and what inadequacies it is designed to disguise. Hence, it's indeed wise not to judge a book by its cover, but instead to regard the cover as a calculated deception which, even under the gentlest scrutiny, will be simple to decode. The following signs have been commonly observed and accurately identified within the margin of error:

--Man or woman more than 40 years old wearing a baseball cap backwards: Wants to portray a well-to-do person who eschews formal airs, projecting a patrician who is comfortable among plebeians because he is so "real" at heart. In reality, a deeply-closeted homosexual who would step on your throat if there was a chance to impress any 15-17 year old girls who may be watching. See also Church of Satan.

--Man wearing a baseball hat with an "NYPD" or "FDNY" logo: Wants to portray a callous jackass who, following the lionization of rescue workers during the 9/11 tragedy, is haplessly attempting to associate himself with "heroic" institutions in hopes of broadcasting his patriotism to anyone who might otherwise doubt his courage and/or worth in the Universe. In reality, an actual member of either the New York City Police or Fire Department who has been up to his eyeballs in easy ass for five years, and now he wants you to challenge him on "faking it" so that he can prove himself (usually by showing you his scars in public,) after which he will add you to the list of the facially-cumshot. You won't argue.

--Adult male black bear wearing a three-piece suit: Wants to portray a circus animal who, after years of cruel treatment, has finally outmaneuvered his captors and ventured out into the human world, where he uses his anthropomorphic training to amuse his way into the hearts of all the city-folk; a lurking possibility that he may turn dangerous and maul small, slow children exists, but is quickly dismissed when they see him roll on his back and play with that ball. In reality, the Second Coming of Jesus Christ, but He continues to be misunderstood by humans and the MSM, and thus fills His days dining for free at three-star restaurants and covertly removing portraits of Caucasian Jesus wherever He goes.

--Woman and man with matching (but not necessarily identical) polo shirts, khaki shorts and baseball hats: Want to portray a happy, professional couple, reasonably successful and secure enough in their individual identities that they'll happily advertise the extent to which their gnawingly narcissistic "romance" has played out. In reality, probably good people whose other clothes were all set on fire by their angst-ridden, medication-savvy pre-teen child, and didn't have time to stop at Monkey Ward's to pick up something that doesn't make them look like pretending, suburban dumbfucks. See also Church of Satan.

--Overweight man in jeans and vastly-oversized T-shirt featuring cartoon character(s): Wants to portray an average kind of guy who hasn't yet "grown up" and is prone to be pretty dang wacky if you get him going. In reality, a contracted employee of a federal intelligence-gathering agency who is, operating under strict orders, very interested in how pert and full your breasts have become over the last five months, and where they may go from here.

--Man or woman dressed in obviously "ethnic" dress from another country: Wants to portray a local person who is proud of their heritage (real or imagined) and wants others to know that he/she has an international perspective, and to that end is prepared to have their outfit mistaken for pajamas and/or military garb. In reality, exactly as presented, but recently farted and obviously making no attempt to conceal it.

The return of the aura

A: Is there something crawling around up there?

B: Yeah, probably.

A: (pause) So, are you going to go up and find out?

B: I can't imagine why I would.

A: Aren't you concerned? Curious, maybe? Wouldn't you like to creep around up in the rafters with some pointy weapon and visit a little lethal aggression on an anonymous pest-creature? It's OK to kill animals - They don't have a Jesus to punish you.

B: That's not funny. Why would you say that to a person who doesn't have any legs? You're a cruel bastard.

A: Well, I'm not the one who -

B: That's enough.

A: You don't ever let me talk.

B: I would try to listen more, but I'm completely middle-fingered out tonight. Try again tomorrow.

A: (pause) OK.

B: OK.

Placid, and yet there were no strangers nearby

With only moments to go before the authorities get that door open, I am compelled to reveal my grudging respect for the decision you three have just taken. I mean, Freddy, you came up with the idea, so credit for quick thinking does go to you, but Jay's got to be commended for giving such vocal, strong approval, and enabling a good plan can be considered just as valuable as daring to dream it up at all. Of course, we must recognize Jan's eagerness to the first off the block, which, in turn, committed the group to following through in the best spirit of "all for one, and one for all." In high-stress situations like this, hasty execution of a desperate course of action is the only path available, and for what it's worth, if I was a man that'd busted a door down and captured a roomful of people, I would certainly be put off to discover that several of them had loaded their trousers with fresh crap right before I came in. I might not be so shocked that I'd let you escape, but I'd say that your success will depend on how delicate the sensibilities of state troopers are in this neck of the woods. Honestly, that's even money.

Incidentally, in case this is the stupidest idea ever, I do intend to keep my pants clean. You probably don't know this, but I have some traumatic experiences with diaper rash that I don't intend to relive. Either way, I wish you the best of luck; up till now, it's been great.

Knocking it over, then up

Re: your latest scheme to get revenge on The Church, I must confess that I'm a little disappointed in your lack communication up to this point. For three months we hear nothing and then, out of the blue, we find a Fed-Ex envelope pinned to the college flag hanging outside my front door. Is this professional? It's certainly not discreet. Further, the pile of napkins enclosed, bearing the scrawled drawings and mad rantings that outline this venture, were, shall we say, in less-than-mint condition. Recycling is always great, but re-using is something you must be more selective about. By any reasonable standard, what you have passed along is a bonafide biohazard, and that's not just my opinion - it's the State's. The page-numbering was also a bit confusing, though I'll grant that switching between Esperanto, Old English and cuneiform symbols as frequently as you do can "loosen up" your attention to such details. As for the plan itself, the wife and I think it's some of your best work yet. Rubber masks will be here in two days (UPS-willing!), and then we'll be hot to trot. I hope your associates in Prague aren't just blowing smoke up your ass this time.

Greasing it up

Due to a lack of interest, Module 5.1 (scheduled for Thurs. 10 a.m., Mohican Room) has been cancelled in favor of a more "hands-on" opportunity, which will be an old-style Gypsy beat-down in the north parking lot (registered attendees only.) The Council has agreed that this will preserve the spirit of the original workshop, while providing more time to do some networking and get laid. Vegetarians are encouraged to re-register for their red badges (aka "Get Out of Meat Free!" buttons) so that they can continue to associate with real people during future social functions. All those bearing blue and/or other out-of-date badges will suffer twenty-five minutes of naked humiliation at the hands of guest-presenter Barbara Billingsley, so consider this fair warning. Following the enthusiastic response so far, the sign-up list for goat shenanigans has been re-opened to allow those who have been through the experience to re-live it nine or ten more times. If you do intend to remove someone else's name from the list and insert your own (or a friend's,) be sure to erase the original name completely, hence releasing the staff from adjourning a mock proceeding to "get to the bottom" of anything. Obviously, we're a little busy up here, and have little concern for your nonsense.

An official pardon: Granted

In addition to my previous statement, I would like to express my condolences to all victims of the tragedy. As always, no more that 26% of the victims truly deserved what they got. Further, there are several unlicensed vendors going around doing unflattering impersonations me soliciting a patrol of young boys, and if this doesn't stop, I should at least see a few duccets in royalties. Otherwise, I have little to add, and I move on to the next phase of this ordeal secure in my convictions, proud of my physical stamina, and all the time nude as a bee.

Mandible research begins with a nude man

Pretending to check around in your pockets isn't getting you anywhere. Just kick him in the nuts and run like a cheetah (on all fours and covered with spots.) If you're stalling just for the fun of it, you can always distract him with the old "Oh-my-gosh-what's-that-thing-over there" trick, and then pull a quarter out from behind his ear. This involves planting the quarter ahead of time, highlighting the importance of advance planning. If you can get away with a few card-tricks, go for it, but once his attention begins to drift, you've got to bring him back with the hysterical declaration that you've dropped an ovary and must find it NOW! This can work against you, as trained agents may be called in to assist in the search, and they never wash their hands before giving it back. Then, try a few poems, any poems - as long as they rhyme. If, at any moment, you sense that he's all done with you, it's time to jump the shark and resort to yelling "Hey, take a look at these!" By then, you've done it: You're across the border without paying the bridge fee. Fight the power.

Calypso, but only for a few miles

In the spirit of looking ahead, I've ordered seven sets of toenail clippers, which are twice as big as fingernail clippers and five times more likely to be confiscated during a pre-boarding security pat-down. I never declare my personal hygiene items during the security check since they're easy to explain away as long as you're Whitey. If they don't consider the semi-chub I've developed during the pat-down a potential weapon, those bitches are fooling themselves with a capital "foo".

Apart from that, toenail clippers are also useful for removing "skin tags", which are inexplicably known as "moles" when they're round, but most of mine look like I've got small, wet corn-flakes hanging off of my body. My aunt (who is a nurse,) refers to these extra bits as "hangin' titties". I suspect this particular aunt had some interesting experiences in the girls' locker room in junior high to have arrived at such a metaphor. Anyway, she reccomends clipping the skin tag off with toenail clippers, quickly staunching the flow of blood, and then assuring any concerned on-lookers that, yes, I did intend to cut myself this way, and yes, I promise not to do this to you when you're asleep. People always believe you the first time that you promise not to cause them harm. If you have to assure them for a third time, it'll be best to move on to someone else, preferably a stranger with a sweet ass.

Tongs didn't get washed

• When you pull back the first few layers, you'll notice the color getting darker and maybe a little moisture, but don't let that slow you down - There's lots to be done.
• Substituting yarn in Step 12 is not recommended, although readers have written in to tell us that if you use purple or brown yarn, it can be totally hilarious.
• Sudden movements must be kept to a minimum during the entire procedure (and especially during Steps 4-10, 16-19, and, obviously, before and after Step 41.) You don't want to invite more resistance than you'll already have, and if you could get permission to do this, you wouldn't need instructions on how to do it in the first place!
• Keeping all restraints clean and serviceable is a labor of love. You can always get new ones, but keep in mind that your resources aren't bottomless, and the staff at Home Depot will get to know your face if you show up every other day.
• When you do pull the van over for gas, food, or other necessities, make sure someone stays in the driver's seat. We've all seen that movie before, haven't we?
• Under NO circumstances should any witness be pursued or otherwise acknowledged. Everyone knows that this town is full of nosy old women, anyway. The cops won't do shit.
• Personal hygiene isn't something that only happens to other people - Dress for Success!
• Afterward, brag about your workmanship only to your friends among the mentally incompetent and the elderly. No one else deserves your attention.

Dumping After Hours Is Strictly Prohibited

The people waiting downstairs will have to wait until we’ve sorted few things out. The constant stomping and stinking will just have to go on a few minutes longer. We still have the problem of the cat to deal with: It isn’t nearly drunk enough. And the sheets in here are really nasty. A can of disinfectant will need to be put to quick work. After that, the phones will have balloons placed over them to prevent the obvious trouble, and of course the floors will suffer terribly, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. Just one more thing: Any munk tracks on my pillow, and there’s a fucking war in this house. Got it?

Nothing Ventured

Without the cover of the bushes to protect them, twelve young men, many of the unshowered variety, were easily located and driven into the river by a pair of hippopotamuses. Once underwater, the group of men were quickly swept away by the rapids, and those who were not permanently towed under the waves were thrown against the rocks until the guts oozed from their slacken mouths. One of the men did manage to cross the river with his life, but he soon realized that he had crossed over into Montague County, and fuck that. One of the hippos looked across the river at the man and shrugged her shoulders. He quickly swam back across the river, and she kissed him, and the three carried on like horny mice until they were sore, pink and stinky.

Pummeled Oysters with Bad Attitudes

Running the water all night long might’ve been a mistake. The faucet won’t swing from left to right anymore and the stuff coming out of it sure as shit isn’t water. The plates and cups in the sink will have to be moved to another location while the situation is being sorted out. IMPORTANT: Don’t breathe a word of this to His Majesty; there may be a way to cover this whole thing up before he even finds out. If not, we’re all doing the hot squats for sure. Get the parachutes ready, just in case. And no more singing in the bell tower, and you know why.

Plates are Spinning in Your Heart

Ugly is one of the words most overused by Americans to describe things that are actually more shabby, gaudy, violent, or arty-farty than they are ugly in the original sense of the word. For something to be truly ugly, there need to be three of them in the same room, and they all need to have droopy tits.

Stop Smelling My Farts

The ownership of the ferns remained in hot dispute, and in the absence of proper documentation or an ounce of common ground among the parties, it looked like the only way out was a big fat punch in the ass. So, fuck you.

Message For Those With Good Reasons

Since last week’s briefing, the Third Sub-Committee has successfully met Objective Square-Seven. The project to discover inexpensive and offensive military applications of the Pee Cramp (SW-7XJ1) has yielded bountiful and forbidden fruit. The members of the Third Sub-Committee are hereby ordered to submit a full report to the Secret Section by the end of the Winter, and six (6) half-hour segments are expected to run on network television news programs not more than ten (10) days following the opening of the Peach Festival. With any luck, no one will pay any attention and the enemy will be taken by brute force and lots of shooting. Those objecting to the use of the Pee Cramp on innocent civilians are advised to grow up and watch a prepared videotape, which is being made available to the Full Committee, until you can show us a goddamn smile. The tape (VT-9TS6) features images of men getting hit in the nuts with tennis balls. Heh. That is all.

Tidy is a mountain you don't climb

Do not execute a full-fledged jig while Sandy is still in the room. Make sure to return the chocolate wrapper to its proper spot in the box when you're done rubbing it between your toes. Never lunge toward a woman's face if her left eye is squinted shut and her arms below the elbow are hanging akimbo. It's imperative to grab the nearest old person's belly and shake that beast for all it's worth in the event of an oncoming herd of horny kindergarteners. In no case is it appropriate to summon the Dark Lord with a demon totem that resembles Mary Lou Retton. Always insist on keeping your hands and feet uncovered when facing down a film-school asshole's mother in single combat. Refuse any offer of financial compensation that would lead to accepting a hickey on your left one. Push strongly for better representation in the local government for smegma, children who are stupid but love cupcakes, and Very Handsome Men. When all these edicts have been followed, return to me for your salvation.

Playing down the rashes and sores

Turn right, because if we go around that tree again, I'm going to drop trou[sers] and give these weasels a little something to look forward to. I forget if north is toward the shadow from the sun, or if it's left of the sun when it's at its highest point, which was a couple of hours ago, anyway. Surely we can make it back to the cabin before she regains enough of her composure to chew her way through the sack, karate-kick herself out into the open air, and seriously bruise the gathered faithful in both visible and rarely-visible areas. I've heard tell that chipmunks always seek the north side of the trees because it helps them to regain their orientation when they wake up the next morning, stinking of Tequiza and cheap ladies. I don't mind climbing a tree this high in order to get our bearings, but if you're going to keep looking up my shorts, you'd best be prepared to tuck some folding currency between the cheek and gum, if you see where I'm headed with this. Praise be, we've finally made it. Uncork the lube-tube and fire up that camera - By God we're going to get an A+ in this course or lose all hope of ever growing facial hair again in the attempt. Wagons roll!

With jellybeans, if you please

There's no substitute for a snazzy hat and freshly-shaved buttocks. There are forces that would like you to believe that you should say it with flowers, but if you're serious about making your point, there's really only ever been one option open to you. Zip open that hat box and foam up the buns, because the longer you wait, the longer it'll take for your friends and clergy to get the message. Once that's settled, you can continue your march across the map of Europe, or just across the bathroom rug! You're in the driver's seat this time, so conquer as much or as little as you like. With a clear finish-line staked out in your head, it's only a matter of pitter-pat until you press your chest against that tape and bring down showers of confetti, flowers and loose ass all around your face and shoulders. Shit yeah. If wild tigers are not a factor in this metaphor, there is no stopping you.

Jan and the can of spread

It is impolite to publicly take pleasure in the misery of old people. Having said so, it's a great comfort to those who have to deal with old people that they sometimes lose control and involuntarily shit themselves. The elderly are often frail and and are hence mistaken for a race of pitiable and humble beings, worthy of the deference and disproportionate indulgence usually reserved for very small children who don't know anything yet. But old people know lots of things, and some of them have lived long lives characterized by cruelty, disaffection, and selfishness. It was in preparation for their autumn years that the Good Lord invented IBS (Incontinent Bowel Syndrome) and similar ailments which have no Heavenly purpose but to force old bodies to disobey their evil minds and fill up the pants with a quart or two of Divine Retribution. For this miracle, and in the purest sense it is a miracle, it becomes unnecessary for younger people to ever kick old people, as long as we recognize that the matter of settling the karmic account has already been taken care of. Some may question the validity of this miracle, since there is a large class of people who enjoy sitting in their own waste, which would negate the justice of the miracle's impact. On the contrary, punishing aged scat-freaks in any way would be totally unnecessary, since they are always beautifully sweet young people, and beautifully sweet old people. The miracle, for them, becomes a blessing, and the beat goes on. If you do know any pleasant old people, it's almost certain that they are scat-freaks. God has blessed them, every one.

Counting down means the end is always in sight

Two fists are all it takes to shut your piehole. Two fists are useless unless connected to two arms, unless some elaborate pre-planning has been carried out. Two fists with nails through them are enough to make people feel guilty for thousands of years. Two fists need to be washed before handling food, digital media, small children, or the back of a nun's head. Two fists are all it takes to interrupt an otherwise routine bris. Two fists can be your best friends when everyone else is paying attention to someone just like you but prettier. Two fists are the judge, the jury, and that's it, because there are only two of them. Two fists will be around long after everyone's forgotten why they like you in the first place. Two fists can be combined to form one big fist, but no one does that because it looks silly. The best thing about two fists is always the other fist. Two fists guarantee entry at most any Masonic rite ceremony. Two fists are too many, but one never seems like enough. Two fists will fit up there, but they've gotta go one at a time. Two fists made this country great, and someday, they'll belt your kids for acting even tougher than you.

Fortune smiles on those who dare

It isn't going to do us much good to bicker and spit about who it was or what they've been eating lately, so in the interest of moving forward, let's all rise, leave the room, and come back in a few minutes while this candle burns the air clean. After all, I never promised you a rose-garden. While we're up and around, we can do a lap or two around the building, allowing us to jostle our constricted genitals that they may swing freely, and to shake loose the fabric of our trouser-legs so that they may once again be wrinkle-free. Better still, let's lose the slacks altogether and do a nakey-run out to the neighbors' mailbox and back. In the event of bee-attack on the way, we've got one of those five-gallon jugs of calomine lotion in the library. What can I say, I love the smell. Afterward, we can regroup here and continue belittling the lesser races behind their backs.

Gritting teeth and losing syrup

Letting one go at your mother's head is plain old wrong. Whatever resentment one has built up against her, your mother is always to be respected, at the very least for that unpleasant day when you ripped up her vagina (head-first, no less) and bleated your baby-cries of gratitude to a roomful of strangers, only to segue into a prolonged jag of pooping whenever you jolly well felt like it and speaking only in tounges like the Pentecostals do (which is fucking creepy in any state. How dare you speak that way to your mother! Your "experimental time" with Marxism also hurt us deeply, but that's not for here.)

Mothers make us beautiful, and some mothers try harder than others. Conversely, it's always your mother's fault if you turn out ugly, but it's your father's fault if you lack the gumbas to rise above it and still get laid all over the place. I'm sure someone could make a witty point if he or she begged the question enough to include single-parent and step-parent scenarios, but at that point we're just sucking poison out of a wound that needs no healing. Let it burn. Let it burn! And then blame your father.

What you missed while Grandma pinched one

Later tonight, I'm gonna poke you with a stick. When I say "you", I really mean the Rights of Man. The stick isn't real, but it will hurt at least as much as a real one would, especially if it were made out of ultra-strong titanium spikes and also had holes drilled through it to reduce wind resistance. I learned the part about the helpful holes from watching TV and films that depicted college fraternity hazing rites that involved paddles and butts. Anyone else who saw these movies and then went on to join a fraternity, which would necessarily be run by other people who had watched these same movies, has a little explaining to do. Not to me, but to little parts of themselves. I could care less. The assaulted legion of man-boys' raw, bloodied ass-cheeks, however, deserve their day in court. Perhaps a legal scholar could enlighten me on how a class-action lawsuit would work in this context, wherein the buttocks are considered complainants in a struggle against the total Man.

Addendum: After a quick Google, it turns out that The Rights of Man v. The Rights of Ass-Cheeks (1974) is not merely a river in China. You guys are in so much deep shit.

Vanilla Sorbet? Whatever!

Normal people often misuse the word "factoid" to denote a fact, usually one they consider obscure or otherwise worthy of being made more cute by the addition of the suffix "-oid". In fact, a factoid is defined as a statement that has the appearance of fact, but is not likely to be true. Hence, the common usage of "factoid" runs counter to its definition, and all normal people who make this mistake are fucking dunces. You probably know a few people who do this on a regular basis. These people are the dead-weight in your life, and they require elimination. Misuse of a word is not the charge; but said misuse is positive evidence that this ugly, wretched sot belongs to a class of person known as "normal", and therein lies the litany of reasons to remove this person (or persons) from the rest of your week. If a person is known to be sub-normal (ie, retarded, incorrectly medicated, suffering from the gout, etc.,) they are to be forgiven this trespass and all others short of malevolent violence. We give chances away to those who need them, and all others can suck it up off my titty.

Gretel made Hansel

For a variety of reasons, serial killers are statistically more likely to be bed-wetters. I am hopeful that, when this information is passed around through the gossip networks and idle-chat opportunities that fill your meaningless life, it will cause the end of at least one relationship, owing to the identification of this tell-tale sign. Because of the nature of the serial-killing game, the total number of murders may not be reduced, since the killer could simply move onto someone else, but the culture always benefits from a little shake-up here and there. If you should pass on this little fact, take note of which members of your circle declare an end to their bed-intensive relationships. Now you know who the killer is in your midst. If your first-aid kit isn't presently stocked, go ahead and leave a note for someone to get on that shit.

Folding it over

If I decide to cut off my thumb, it commits the rest of my hand to a life of increased responsibility, and I am not bold enough to impose that extra strain on an innocent hand. It's not something you should have to think about in order to make the right decision, but I thought if I gave it a little overthought, I could out-clever myself and prove that it's really great to cut off a thumb, even though it is one of the very few features I've been gifted with that make me inarguably superior to a barnyard cock. This has been a futile effort, and I am here to report that cutting off my own thumb would almost never be justified. There, that's the wiggle-room I needed. I should also mention that barnyard cocks are incredibly stupid and crow all day long, not only at the "crack of dawn", contrary to popular legend. Oddly enough, I learned this when I was living in New York City. The difference between the crack of dawn and the crack of a dirty person's ass does not exist in that town. That's why I drink soy milk.

There is such a thing

You can only take in so much at once before your memory gets overburdened. Or, as my father likes to say, you can't get ten pounds of shit into a five-pound bag. Applied to experience, this metaphor is perfectly apt. For example, if I were going to have intercourse with twenty-seven people in one sitting, I wouldn't be able to remember them very clearly as individuals. No matter how sober I was or what excellent notes I was taking, I'd still draw a blank later when asked to recall Partners 11, 12, 15, 17, and 23. Honestly, I'm having a hard time picturing Partners 11, 12, 15, 17, and 23 right now, and I haven't even left the house yet.

Being as how it's the truth

It is easy to be humiliated, but it takes a high level of intelligence to know that you have been humiliated. Sometimes you get hit with an insult or or bested in an argument, and your opponent will believe they have humiliated you, when in fact they have only made themselves seem cruel, ugly, or stupid, thus turning the shame around on them. Or maybe they're just an asshole to begin with, which makes it far more difficult for them to push negative stigma onto others. But sometimes, you have been well and truly screwed, and you just have to sit in it and feel like a jackass. There are a few cocktail recipes that can bring this sensation on without the time and trouble of orchestrating a colossal fuck-up, but the majority of them involve a thick Russian liquor that tastes like lawngrass, which carries its own shameful connotations from the moment you cradle the bottle in your hands. The only one that qualifies in my neighborhood bar is called a "Fat Elvis." It involves Frangelico, creme de banana, and cinnamon schnapps. It's supposed to taste like peanut-butter and nana sammiches. If you drink three and then do three lines of coke and then go sit on the shitter, you'll totally have a heart attack and be famous forever.

Lucky Ducks

It's a great thing that milk comes out of breasts, hence through nipples, because that makes it easy to find. If milk was hidden a little better, it may have taken many more years for us to figure out that it was A) There and B) Drinkable. If milk came out of the anus instead of the nipple, we would be some kinky mamba-jambas. Television standards would certainly reflect this more flexible attitude toward what parts of the body we are ashamed of, and dinner-time programs would include elements that you, in your limited world-view, would condsider tasteless. In this alternative reality, however, your grandmother would probably tape these shows and send money to crooked evangelists.

Choices make fools of us all

Everyone can eat my hog. Really, that's what it's there for, and it won't bother me in the slightest. For all I care, you can go ahead and eat my hog. What do I care? If you choose not to eat my hog, there are plenty of other choices out there for you. Whatever choice you make will mark you for the rest of your life, even if you don't remember what that choice was or what the outcome was; that's just how time and space work. Ergo, if it's all the same to you, you can eat my hog. Bitch.

Flabby Johnnys

It is true that I have a very flabby johnny. But it is also true that I never let that get me down. There are many different images that I summon when trying to fall asleep, and out of the main twenty-seven, there appears not one flabby johnny. When taking any major decision, it is crucial to arrive at this frame of mind before tallying the final votes.

Medical Curiosity

Have you ever heard of a medical condition called "trunk-butt"? Whether you have or not, I wonder if it would be worse or better to be suffering from said condition on the moon, inside a pressurized space-suit. Who do you turn to with questions like this?