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American history kicks ass.

So, I know this guy who prays, like... a LOT. I hired him to pray for my soul. I get 35% of his prayers diverted to my soul, which is, like... 200% of what I would do on a good day. I come out ahead.

Damn, I'm going to heaven!

How I solved my sister-in-law's problem before it became a problem[edit]

I was smoking some blueberry kush and talking to my sister-in-law on the phone. I forget what we were talking about. Anyway, somehow we agreed that I had solved her problem before it existed. I was pretty baked.

Adventures in weather forecasting[edit]

Oh, Jesus... this guy again. I hate him. He does the weather, but I can't get past his bizarre speech patterns, pointless gesticulations... I just hear this idiot babbling and squeaking. Yeah, squeaking. For example, he'd say "High pressure", and he'd squeak the word "high". His speech is heavily interspersed with squeaking.


So, what's the deal with breasts? Re-purposed sweat glands. Isn't evolution interesting?


He's fuming again. Sitting on his fat ass, on the couch, smelly shoes off and stinking up the room... and he's pissed. It's the cling wrap, no doubt. When Cassius replaced the glue with termites, all those pissy little bangled queens started running about, screaming about the ointment and how society discriminates against pissy little bitches.

He throws the mostly empty beer bottle at your head, again. Of course, he misses. Drunk or sober, he can't throw worth a shit. Ironic he was a Little League baseball all star, played 56 positions and sold beer. This cherub was singing a Russian folk song as the seamstresses threw firecrackers at the bass player, trying to make him jump. No one was fooled by the display.

As the stars fell from the skies, idiot bankers, blank eyed and frothing, stuffed their subordinates into barrels and loaded onto skiffs bound for Amsterdam. Monks with beri pistols attacked the bishopric, setting fire to the mattresses.

As the flames rose, the bishop changed into a salamander and skittered off into a local stream. The enraged clergymen followed, but could not keep up due to the confining design of their clothing.The biggest problem was the triple-thick anti-Mormon special underwear. Also, they were afraid of the ants.

Don't smell that![edit]

I mean me. Don't smell me! I smell awful, but then, that's how I make my living. Don't look at me for too long, either. I mixed prescription drugs with kerosene again, and I'm out of my mind. I might snap. Oh, and I smoked four pounds of cayenne pepper. That always makes me cranky. At least my touch-typing skills are undiminished.

They called her babushka. She collected mothballs and smoked filterless cigarettes. She spoke quickly and with passion, and wrinkled her nose if you mentioned cabbage. Flightless birds followed her on Wednesdays. She called eggs cackle fruit. Her clothing was homemade exclusively from material from Indonesia. Plumbers wanted to marry her, elephants never heard of her and gargoyles coveted her mincemeat pies. She bought a house made out of baskets and worked in town as a granola sorter.

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