and now for something completely different.


for none are so sneaky as you,
King Patrick!
for none thought to ever put super fine sawdust in a trash can,
King Patrick!
for none knew that eventually, some half wit would come to smush down said trash delivering a sawdust cloud of poof in their face, except for



Haiku's for Hubby

construction paper
crayons, glue stick, sarcasm
kiss my ass, hallmark

arrow to the chest
axe in the head, brains and heart
cannibal cupid

valentine blood bath
"get your machete. man up"
wont catch on so well

if you were to have
a heart attack on this day
double points to me?

"be my valentine"
candy hearts and chocolate
i just lost my lunch

"hunters shoot cupid,
holiday ends in cold blood"
film at eleven

Kiss me, I'm Irish!
let's go get me lucky charms
oops. wrong holiday

child labor, who cares
mine conditions, lol
get me diamonds

surprise! pearl necklace
good thing you wore the blue dress
no box for that gift

silicone love doll
fleshlight, KY, internet
forever alone

beef heart delivered
fresh, bloody, straight from the cow
popular gift? no.

Happy Bloody Valentines Day.

Equality in all things. Nature is in harmony when it is near the point of symmetry (not too many predators, not an abundance of prey).
All cute things have an evil side; it’s a requirement for being cute. Maintains the Balance. That sweet innocent neighbor that smiles and waves every time he sees you is only doing so because he’s chopping off heads in his living room. The co-worker that brings cookies on the other holidays, has added a pinch of strychnine to the dough, just for shits and giggles. Aw. You're fucked, mocha java.

A full holiday reinvention is in order.
I say that we split the day in half. The first half is devoted to the hearts and rainbows crowd. Good for you, eat your candy up. Get your red roses, put them in a vase. Love love love, kiss kiss kiss. Diamonds, pearls, breakfast or lunch with your sweetheart (dinner if you want to risk being out after dark). Whatever it is, candy coat it and gobble it up, hooray!

Ok, now shut the fuck up, puppies and flowers. The other half of the holiday, as the sun begins to set, we devote to the darkness we have thus far not fostered in our beloved cherub fattie, Cupid. He has a bow and arrows. Hello. Ever watched the news and seen some hunting accident that caused a man dressed in full camouflage to fall in love with his buddy after getting popped in the chest with an arrow? No, you see that guy lying in a pool of blood dying crying for his momma. Therefore cupid can't be shooting arrows to make people kiss and swoon with le passion. This is a long standing misinterpretation of purpose. He’s trying to weed out the population. Its open season. You are, the hunted. Balance: because disease just isn't getting the job done.

I say, we celebrate.
Bring back blood sacrifices!
Ritual virgin burning!
Raw animal (and human, why not) hearts in cute pink boxes with ribbon, exchanged with sadistic smiles and quiet laughter. Hushed voices moving about the city in cloaks among shadows, dodging bloody sharp arrows legally shot after nightfall. Public executions in the street by guillotine; at the entrance of our cities speared, the bodies of the convicted on display, their moans and cries of pain echoing on the wind. Stadiums hosting figures painted ghostly white fighting tigers and lions with spears, shrieks and screams working our collective blood lust into sexual frenzy. And right before midnight, while we then silently slumber, the legend of Cupid atop his white Pegasus (those little wings aren’t holding that fat ass up – I am no physics professor but I am hardly an idiot) riding all over the earth, leaving body parts on the doorsteps of all true believers. A gift of truly divine love.
“Mommy, LOOK!” exclaimed the excited child. “Cupid left me a head!!! I must have been REALLY good this year!”

I'm working it out.
Until then, Happy Valentines Day to All, And to All a Good Night.


sometimes you just get sucked into the tornado unwillingly.

martin: are you there?
me: like, here?
me: or, there?
me: there, being, there.
me: cause. i am here.
me: right here.
me: hey. pst. hey.
me: hey hey.
me: martin.
me: hey.
martin: yes
me: you there?
me: http://i.imgur.com/0OmVe.jpg

me: hey. pst.
me: http://i.imgur.com/Ydb1h.jpg

me: hey
me: you there?
me: psst.
martin: yeeees
me: http://i.imgur.com/8p01s.jpg

me: hey.
me: (hosted on private website)

martin: when did you graduate?
me: 93
martin: I graduated in 97
me: i am your elder.
me: sh.
me: listen to my sage advice.
martin: what's your advice for me today?
me: didnt you hear it?
martin: no
me: oh.
me: sorry.
me: you didnt hear it?
martin: no
me: OH.
me: SORRY.

[martin has logged off.]

sage advice email sent:


Nude Night

Nude Night

Nude Night

Nude Night

Nude Night

Nude Night

Fortune Cookie Win


Eulogy: Beloved Koty, Worlds Most Expensive Fucking Dog Ever.

She cared for you better than any dog could have ever hoped for. When you needed a new sweater, you got it. When you needed new toys, you got it. When you needed the best food money could buy, you got it. When you needed surgery to remove cysts, you got it. When you needed teeth pulled and new doggie dentures, you got it. When you needed doggie psychiatric counseling and depression medication, you got it. And when you needed doggie deep tissue massages, mani/pedi and facials, guess what, you got that too.

When you peed on something, she replaced it. When you yacked on something, she replaced it. When you tore shit up, she sure as fuck, replaced it all just to watch you do it again.
You got everything you ever wanted and even some shit, you didn't want, but you got it anyway, just because, you were the beloved Koty, worlds most expensive fucking dog ever.

Your vet bills alone, totaled around $10,000, I imagine, when all was said and done. I have no clue as to the amount she paid in replacement items and specialty gifts, but I bet it was a lot. There was always something new you needed to have; there was always something wrong with you and she always fixed it.
That's a lot of fucking bones, Koty. You knew it. With your smug little face, you knew it.
If you had ever walked about the house shitting everywhere, oozing puss from sores unknown, slobbering rabies infecting the children, coughing up blood, harassing her husband for no reason, she would have fixed you right up after euthanizing the kids, getting a divorce, burning the toxic house and buying a new one, no matter what the cost.
That's how much, she loved you Koty. Worlds most expensive fucking dog ever.

You watched 14 other dogs and 8 other cats get bought and given away. They didn't even get unique names, Koty. Just, numbers. Because, who fucking cared. They weren't beloved Koty. Cat #4 was a good enough name for an animal that wouldn't be around for long.

The golden dog.
The dog of the hour.
The dog of the fucking century.

She loved you, dear Koty.
She even paid to have you cremated and your remains now sit on the mantle. And even though you hated my guts, Koty, more than any other animal I have ever met on this planet, I am going to suggest she create a shrine to your golden doggie ass. Because, even in death beloved Koty, why should you not remain the worlds most expensive fucking dog ever. It is your title. It is your honor. It is who you were, are and will forever be.

RIP, Koty, Worlds Most Expensive Fucking Dog Ever.
You, were loved.

business cards



Bunny at the Consulting Firm: An Extremely Short Play

Scene 1: Mr. Boss's Office
[Setting: Large office. Mr. Boss seated at an enormous desk, huge leather chair. Bunny is standing across from him. He has a printed Powerpoint presentation going through revisions of the individual slides with Bunny.]

Mr. Boss: So take this slide and put it behind this one and then take the presentation from last year, that company who had the red logo with the P in it, and place their financials in front of this slide, but recalculate all the numbers using the factor 500…
Bunny: I don’t know how to calculate financials; I do all your graphics work Mr. Boss.
Mr. Boss: [Cuts Bunny off] And then replace the word Proposal with Forecasted Increase – what do you think, does that sound too salesy?
Bunny: No.
Mr. Boss: Better yet, let’s use ROI. Is that too initially?
Bunny: No.
Mr. Boss: Never mind, keep it as Proposal. OK, then I want you to change this [Mr. Boss writes two illegible words, scratches them out, rewrites three words, scratches those out, then writes a five word phrase ending with a stab from his pen on the paper] and put it on this line [points to a place right next to a financial figure].
Bunny: Wait. What does that say? [Bunny gets pen ready to rewrite doctor-esque handwriting]
Mr. Boss: Yes, put it right there. [points again to place next to financial numbers]
Bunny: Yes, but WHAT does it say?
Mr. Boss: [Says phrase so fast it comes out like German] And put it right there. [points again]
Bunny: Does it correspond with this number? [points to number next to place he is pointing]
Mr. Boss: It goes right there [points again].
Bunny: Is the number a reflection of this? [points to chicken scratch five word phrase again]
Mr. Boss: It goes right here. [points again]
Bunny: Yes. Ok, that it?
Mr. Boss: Can you make it a little sexier?
Bunny: Sexier, sir?
Mr. Boss: It should pop.
Bunny: Yes, pop, sexier.
Mr. Boss: Also, I need this before lunch. [Current EST time is 11:57am] Five copies, spiral bound with a nice cover.
Bunny: No problem, what time are you going to lunch?
Mr. Boss: Noon, but I will wait until you are done. I have a meeting at 12:30 with this Client, keep that in mind. This is big! BIG!
Bunny: Gooooootcha.

[Bunny walks to the door and as Mr. Boss picks up the phone she breaks into a run. Lights dim.]

Scene 2: Bunny’s Office
[Setting: Bunny sitting at desk, piles of papers scattered everywhere. Phone is ringing, co-worker is seated in chair in front of her desk, printer is printing].

[Lights brighten. Bunny is rolling a 20 sided die on the desk.]

Bunny: 12! [Types in new financial figure number, that may or may not correspond with illegible corporate verbatim]
Co-worker: …so then he says, “Are you going to eat that piece of chicken?”…
Bunny: [Removes handful of toothpicks from desk and tosses them on the floor] 1…2…3… 27! 27 Toothpicks are touching each other! [Looks down at hands to see how many fingers have rings on them today, multiplies by 27 and then switches the first and last numbers, adds 3 and puts figure in last financial calculation box. Next to it she types 500.]
Co-worker: …and holy shit, I just couldn’t believe she fit her head IN there…
[Speaking through phone intercom] Receptionist: Bunny, I have Mr. Regional Director on line 4.
Bunny: Can you tell him I died and take a message, please.
[Sales Department VP walks into the room]
VP: You busy?
Bunny: You high?
VP: I have this photograph that my mother in law took while we were camping this weekend, I was wondering if you could scan it in, crop out the deer and my brother, add a sunset, and make me look 50 lbs lighter?
Bunny: Leave the photo and get the fuck out of my office before I stab you in the eye with my red pen. I will email you the file when I am done.
[VP walks out and Mr. Boss pokes his head in the door]
Mr. Boss: How’s it coming?
[Bunny looks at clock, it’s five after noon]
Bunny: Almost finished, sir, 20 more seconds! [Flips through presentation to make sure design is clean and presentable.]
Mr. Boss: Good job, Bunny, I'll meet you up front.
[Mr. Boss walks down the hall]
Co-worker: Do you think that zombies exist?
Bunny: Did you really just ask me that?
Co-worker: I was trying to see if you were paying attention.
Bunny: I am, yet I am not. Stew on that.
[Bunny grabs bound presentations and runs to meet Mr. Boss at the receptionist desk.]
[Out of Breath] Bunny: Where did Mr. Boss go?
Receptionist: Oh, he just left.
[Bunny yanks receptionist’s phone from her hands and dials Mr. Boss’s cell phone.]
[Speaking into phone] Bunny: I have your presentation, sir.
Mr. Boss: Oh, good job, I can email him that tonight though, don’t worry about rushing, just lay it on my desk. Oh and by the way, can you change Proposal to read Forecasted Increase Guidelines, and set the background to something greenish instead of that blue, with photos but not too many at the bottom, I think green in the new brown, it is really hot right now and I think it speaks to our revenue generating abilities better. Email me everything. THANKS!
[Mr. Boss hangs up. Line goes dead.]



i. want. it. now.

i do i do i do i do i do i do i do
i want it i want it i want it
now now now now now now


peanut butter derails what is already derailed

LL: i have guns.
RDWL: I'm very happy for ya.
LL: no you aren't.
LL: you aren't happy for me at all.
LL: and that's where we are at.
LL: i have the guns.
LL: and you are pissed.
LL: cause you only have knives.
LL: so you cant go to the gun fight.
RDWL: /ignore
LL: /stab
LL: /shrugs
RDWL: /smacks gum
LL: /twirls hair around finger
LL: /throws a shoe
RDWL: /absentmindedly ducks, smacks gum
LL: /throws duck
RDWL: /keeps duck as pet, doesn't share
LL: /throws hungry rabid wolf
RDWL: /befriends wolf, cures rabies, covers nuts with peanut butter
LL: /pays for special delivery of peanut butter loving dog with genetically modified large satin textured tongue
LL: you'd fuck a dog for less money than it would cost to feed one of those fly buzzed descended belly children in Africa. sick. buy a cup of coffee, for fucks sake.

you can eat babies if you want to, but i prefer take-out kabobs

I am sympathetic today. After trying to eat the breakfast of yogurt in a tube, I am sympathetic today for all those human beings who are starving right now because I threw that nasty tube yogurt in the trash and now too, I am starving. Gross. I do not get the appeal of squirting yogurt in your mouth, kids are disgusting creatures.

One (me) may like to imagine what something would look spitfire roasted, that is not usually spitfire roasted. This morning it is a walrus which might be way too heavy for a stick (gonna need a steel rod) but would look pretty cool I think, being cranked over an open flame because walruses are cylindrical for the most part. Its the aesthetic, my loves. And a keen sense of flame handling.

Today I am to have a liquid lunch. Crab and corn chowder.
It qualifies.

And now we have the category for Best Sandwich.
(Round of applause then the crowd hushes as the nominations are read)
And the nominations go to:
Banana and Peanut Butter Sandwich!
Hot Cuban Sandwich!
Tuna Fish Sandwich!
Pixie Stick, Capt'n Crunch and Mayonnaise Sandwich!
(applause as everyone is looking around at each other wondering who that sandwich had to fuck to get nominated through beauty pageant smiles, while the sandwich sheds tiny little tears acting surprised to have even been nominated, the taste of semen hauntingly still present)
And the Best Sandwich Award goes to... the Tuna Fish Sandwich!!
(Crowd goes totally bonkers)
(Tuna Fish sandwich walks awkwardly to the stage to accept the award)
I would like to thank, God, for which all things are possible...

[Note: and NOT possible, let's not forget the opposite of what's possible, for if one can make things happen one can also NOT make things happen, it renders as a choice, which means God chooses, like, to grace someone with the winning touchdown, or the Best Sandwich Award, or to starve to death in a third world country even though there is enough food to feed approximately 9 billion people on a 6 billion people planet, but you go on thanking whoever you seem to think helps you make it through the day, if that's what you need, but spare the rest of us the illogical manifestation of your insecurities and irrational objectification of mystical beings who hold puppet strings, who honestly if DID, wouldn't give a fuck about the spec of dust called the Milky Way, much less you, in the vast expanse of the whole of the Universe. For myself, I am doing just fine with a little help from my friends. And the occasional Tuna Fish sandwich.]

...and also, every one who ever ate me.
(nodding and tears are shared throughout the touched audience)
(Tuna Fish sandwich exits the stage)





12:00 PM
Ol' Skrawberry: Greetins Sprankles!
Sprankles: greetins!
Ol' Skrawberry: What are your orders?
Sprankles: to kill without prejudice.
Ol' Skrawberry: Can do.
Sprankles: i will need some supplies.
Ol' Skrawberry: K. Send me a list.
Sprankles: carrier pigeon?
Ol' Skrawberry: Damn straight.
Ol' Skrawberry: We're gonna have to make some radical changes.
Sprankles: radical ones? like with tie dye and frizzy hair?
Sprankles: i will prepare the parachute pants.
Ol' Skrawberry: As many zippers as possible.
Sprankles: check. check one. check two. check check.
Ol' Skrawberry: Is this thing on?
Sprankles: fucking engineers.
Sprankles: its like you can give them the schematics 400 times and they still plug into the microwave.
Sprankles: you are going to need to hire some better assistants.
Sprankles: shall we construct a craigslist ad?
Ol' Skrawberry: Marketing is more your forte than mine, and yes. Definitely.
Sprankles: i am on it, boss.
Ol' Skrawberry: Good. I am getting out my Texas shaped belt buckle as we speak.

12:21 PM
Sprankles: Copy: Texas Tycoon requires schematics to be read for proper insertion of microphone equipment. Schematics written in Mandarin.
Requirements: Four years relevant experience, ability to make varied lists with graphs, knowledge of proper peanut butter to jelly ratio, large belt buckle.
Reply with justification of further project involvement and list of readily available items to fit category: radical, immediately.
Payment negotiable.
Ol' Skrawberry: add "Serious inquiries only. Celery comensurate with experience."
Sprankles: posted.
Sprankles: http://orlando.craigslist.org/lbg/2196957456.html
Sprankles: t-minus 3 minutes to ban, sir.


Mr. Rainbow Pants meets Mrs. Running Shoes

Flavored creamer is making me fat.
Lack of exercise, excessive alcohol consumption, age and bar food, no. Its the goddamn creamer.
I usually take my coffee black with sugar and even given the amount of sugar I use, it calculates to way less calories than the thick milky satanic goodness of Hazelnut coffee creamer. But no one else at work uses sugar, they all have to drink creamer in their coffee so I am thrust every morning into making my coffee like everyone else who works with me.
One might imagine that I would simply remember to bring in sugar for my personal consumption, but one would be wrong. I can't remember. These tasks are too difficult for me; total brain stoppage and thus my hips grow uncontrollably like Tetsuo, eventually to engulf small children and dogs.
(...the horror...the horror...)
I am. A potential pachyderm.

Not really. And to be honest, I don't give a fuck as long as my breathing is steady enough to have sex, my husband still playfully slaps my ass and calls me sexy and my heart doesn't feel like it is pounding out of my chest walking to the next room. I used to give a fuck. I used to give too much of a fuck. I used to weigh myself every day, decline cake, cry when I looked at my child bearing hips. But these thoughts no longer consume me and what matters the most to me is that I smile, and live as full of a life as possible, without wasting it pounding pavement and obsessing about the hands of time. It's already too short.

Everyone I know is in this weird "Get in Shape" mode as of late. Like they collectively woke up somehow heavier, spazzed, created a Facebook Fan Page to loose the nasty pounds together, this new age spiritual soul fulfilling trip to fucking Mecca.
Diet. Running. Gym. Workout. Weights. Measuring tape. Scales. I lost five pounds! I love my new ass!
Congratulations, but meh.
Seriously, it isn't fun and I know it isn't fun, even you know it isn't fun, if it were fun it wouldn't be an event, you would just do it normally and not announce it to the world, like when you eat dinner and no one really gives a shit so you don't bother telling people you did that task either. If it were fun and people were only doing it for the fun factor, I wouldn't have to listen to people bitch about consuming bland diet food, or complain about being injured, yet refuse to take days or weeks off for fear of their pot belly returning or losing even the slightest bit of muscle tone. It is only during that moment that the true reason reveals itself concerning your "love" of being on a treadmill in a stuffy gym on display like a bunch of circus performers, or running around a lake with your cross training friends at 5am, before it is even logical for your ass to technically be out of bed having gone to sleep at midnight.

What drives our need to feel good about ourselves, is everyones else's visualization of us and the medias concoction of the acceptable standard to body image, regardless of bone size and genetics. Thats my observation. It's the motivation. The determining factor.
Endless amounts of unaltered fat pictures showing up on friends Facebook walls, our assumed high school mates judgement, the horror of your double chin, not because you are overweight, but because you tilted your head the wrong way when the photo was shot. An inundation of celebrities who can afford to spend 3 hours a day in a gym or have a personal trainer following behind them, grabbing cupcakes from their hands and replacing with celery stalks. The pictures you see in advertisements, are so heavily manipulated without regard to the damage it inflicts to the masses (especially, our youth) who cannot disassociate; this constant barrage of unrealistic imagery pounded daily into their brains via advertising and fashion fucktards who have set the bar to: Size 3 ass, Cup C tits, no wrinkles or gray hair at 35 like it is normal, healthy and achievable without fairy dust and unicorn granted wishes. It is disgusting, these skeletons that walk around with little to no body shape. But we all want to be one, just like Mr. Rainbow Pants, who cant bear to swim against the stream. Patti Smith was in a documentary I watched the other night, looking old. Grey hair, visible mustache, wrinkly skin, but fuck off, it was Patti Smith and she doesn't give a fuck what you think. As she should. As we all should. I cheered loudly.

Reality is that most people don't give a shit about how you look, unless you happen to be 600lbs. too large and your only hope for rescue from a bed ridden state is some reality TV show. Even then they only care as much because its a train wreck, empathy flew out the door with "OMFG, look at HIM". If you are really doing something for yourself, change your lifestyle. In twenty years do you still see yourself running ten miles a day? Find a better way, traffic is bad any way, you are potentially setting yourself up to be run over then it won't matter if you had an extra 5lbs, in fact, if you had been fatter you might have had enough cushion to keep your knee damaging ass alive.

Eat some pie, just don't eat the whole goddamn thing.
Walk somewhere occasionally, instead of taking a car.
This should be easy for pretty much ALL of us.

Some of you have given birth, your activity level has decreased since having to rush to seven classes, five days a week, heart beat racing from the stress of trying to remember if you did the homework assigned; molecular makeup and chemical processes have changed you with age. It's why you can't have twinkies for breakfast everyday and not see the result in your thighs. It's why you have grey hair, your teeth darken, skin requires more lotion. We all go through it. Can we not just move past combatting these fairy-tale issues together, so that we are not wasting money on needless and potentially more damaging processes (affordable plastic surgery payment plans) to keep an eternal youthful image, which is so illogical it smells like vanilla scented cherubs.

I am 35 and getting older. I do not look like I did when I was 21. I never will. Am cool with this. Seriously. You cannot take a generic chart and plot my health upon it, because part of that equation is how I feel (physically and psychologically), not just my measurements. I am fast approaching the age where women start dying their hair, to cover the grey and you know what... I don't fucking want to. I see what you have to go through, the amount of money you spend on this one task alone. Why do I have to join your group, can't you join mine? Why is it such a big fucking deal. WHAT IS THE BIG FUCKING DEAL I HAVE GREY HAIR NOT CANCER.

Can't we just be happy with how we look and feel? Cant we find some way to get exercise that makes us happy, is reasonable, and doesn't require the kind of dedication scientists devote to finding the cure for AIDS? It just seems too fucking overblown to me. I get the desire to feel better, even I want to feel better. But if that equates to spending an hour of my time, five days a week, doing some monotonous boring activity and giving up ice cream, fuck it.
Instead of taking the car to the corner store, 5 blocks away, walk. Hit a racquetball. Take some dance lessons and practice with your partner every night over a bottle of wine and samples of cheese. Don't eat processed food. Turn off the television. Remind yourself to be happy, in every state of being your mind and body are at: rest, movement, and in transition. Stress will kill you faster than fat. Quite honestly, you are lucky to have simply woken up from the night before. Celebrate. It really is, that much of a miracle.

Rant: Over.
Lunch: Pasta. Throughly, enjoyed.
Dinner: Chicken, red wine and laughter. Can't wait.

I love you all, by the way, and I don't give a fuck what you look like.
Just don't smell like pee.

Heather LOVES me


alternate endings

...they kill Jaws. The blood in the water attracts a large group of average sized tiger sharks. The men who survived are now picked to pieces, die slowly and very painfully.

Dawn of the Dead
...the remaining survivors fight back successfully and all the zombies are killed. The remaining population of humans, so small in size, breeds to replenish the earth but because the gene pool is so limited, all the offspring develop horrible abnormalities and extreme health problem, weakening the species further, until they all die out any way.

Return of the Jedi
...the Empire infects Endor with a virus, the Ewoks go totally feral, biting everyone and infecting them with Rage. The whole of Endor turns into 28 Days Later; bloodthirsty Ewoks ravage the moon hungry for flesh. The Empire uses trained Jedi to mind control them and sends the killer Ewoks out to take over the galaxy. Everyone still hates the Empire and now, the Ewoks too.

Leaving Las Vegas
....Nicholas Cage is convinced to go to rehab and sobers up. After realizing he is in love with a prostitute and she is pregnant with his baby, he opens up a vein in a hotel bathroom. Because of the repeated attempts at his life, he is committed to a mental institution where he remains for the next 20 years on heavy sedatives. Meanwhile Elisabeth Shue has his baby, it grows up without a father present and a mother who is still hooking. The child eventually becomes a Meth dealer. When Nick is finally released, his son, angry, hooks him on Meth purposely and then guts him like a fish, literally, during a ten day no sleep paranoia fueled drug haze.

Vanilla Sky
...it's not a dream and Tom Cruise is just schizophrenic. He has killed Penelope Cruz. The put him on trial for murder. Convicted and given the death penalty by lethal injection. Jason Lee shows up to witness his death.

Lord of the Rings
...Frodo totally fails. Sauron gets the ring back, and leading the orcs, they take over Middle Earth. Unchallenged, Sauron then turns on all the orcs killing them. Bored, he feels lonely. Wishes for friends. Doesn't even have a dog to keep him company. Regrets his choices. Cries a lot by himself lavaside. Develops lung cancer from hanging around too much volcanic ash. Sad.

...Crime bosses are brought to justice once in the courtroom - life sentences for all. Joe Pesci kills Robert De Niro, then Sharon Stone, picked up by the cops for both, sentenced to life. Bosses and Pesci all join the prison choir after turning their lives over to Christ. Become famous and put out a CD of their music. Give inner city turn your life around speeches about the dangers of trusting the Mob and gangs. Las Vegas Casinos continue to rape everyone of their money for the next 300 billion years.


Division 10: AD

An AD I created today for a Division 10 company; one of the many divisions construction classifies for all items listed below.

I like it.