Dear Roger,

It sure as shit ain't getting better. I had an incident tonight. I was sitting on the miserable rattle coaster excuse for this city's Public Transit, and without the shielding of a book or some form of music device I was forced to look the monkey in the eye, face to face with the Brothers and Sisters that were forced on me because of the spot on the face of Planet Mudball I was unfortunate enough to have been born onto. It was as if the work of Hieronymus Bosch sprang into life around me, but wearing blinking sneakers and sparkling vampire t-shirts. I'm just a man, Roger, I have my limits, dammit. Picture the Incredible Hulk doing the tango; picture Godzilla going for sushi; picture, hell picture Frankenstein dusting. It was not pretty. There's something about the smell of fresh brain that reminds me of my first bedroom. It was purple. What sane parent paints a kid's bedroom purple? I didn't stand a fucking chance, Roger.

Some questions:
Is it possible that the typhoon in the Philippines is the direct result of the whale-tail of Miley Cyrus? Does the ghost of Anna Nicole Smith fart? What did Pope Ratzinger say to Megan Fox and David Hasselhof when they all met in the Los Angeles headquarters of the Kabbalah Center™? I don't know either, but I suspect we will all find out, sooner rather than later.

Roger, why is it that anyone can pop out a kid, yet to receive a free coke at McDonalds I have to fill out a quiz? How can I be expected to hear the word 'crantini' and not snap and strangle someone? Can you answer me that? The green olives of the world weep, my friend.

My great grandfather watched for German planes on a rooftop during WWII. When someone called out that the war was over, he fell from the building, impaling himself on a spiked fence far below. A co-worker asked him, "William, does it hurt?" My grandfather replied: "Only when I laugh." Me too, Roger; only when I laugh.

Hoopla

PS: I need you to wire me some bail money.