Kids, it's about time we went on a road trip. Gather up all your belongings and burn them. We're driving to a whole nother country where we'll join a cult with a whole host of celebrity guest stars - now 45% cocaine free. Imagine the hilarity, both ensuing and pursuing. Imagine. There'll be song and dance too, with at least one duet between two stars from different musical genres. One or more dead person will be applauded whilst countless others go unapplauded because no-one knows who they are. "Yay he's dead... I mean aww he's dead. Shh, don't clap him: he spied for the Chinese. Ooh I know, let's stand up and turn around. Clap your hands. Stand up, turn around, clap, sit down, oh sit down. Un-tss (2001)." Weird scenes inside the goldmine, ghosts, dragons, large breasted Amazonian women with piranhas swimming up their urethras - very small piranhas, very large urethras; it's what comes of drinking so much water to tolerate such a hot climate and then being stretched by gushing urination. There'll be a beep, or a black band; you won't see nuffink unless you choose to pay extra, and if you do you'll be ripped off - when have you ever not been ripped off? It's like the world is a person and we're just the plaster (live aid) that gets removed when the wounds are scabbed over. I love metaphors: they prove a point by being fixed to fit the point they intend to prove. Only fucking idiots would listen to a metaphor, only those who condescend with stain and discord would use them. Who's the so-called bad man in this so-called society in this so-called world we call so-called world with a so-called society and a so-called bad man fitting in each other like a set of Russian dolls with strap-on dildos forming a chain, one inside the other in this so-called society balanced atop this so-called world, falling between the so-called cracks when so-called earthquakes so-called occur? Is it you, or is it the man who stands atop a dead body with a bloody knife in one hand and a metaphorical alibi in the other? Don't know? Toss a coin. Maybe you win, maybe you lose. There are no losers but the losers, but in this case even the loser does alright because he (and/or she) doesn't get carted off to jail to encounter all sorts of scrapes, japes, sodomy, soul-searching, platonic love, more sodomy, now 45% more consensual than ever, pigeons, weevils, a small mouse who looks like the governor, and a futile death. Gosh darn, I love futile death: it's so futile, and yet so deathly with it. It's the perfect mix of futility and death, a bit like a really good vinaigrette, in fact, I suppose you could say that the vinaigrette of futile death is the new black, which is the new brown, which is the new black, which is the new gingrich (spell checkers rock: gingrich is jingoish), which (ironically - note to self: don't use dictionaries) is the old yeller, which is the new Mikey Whipwreck - he wrestled with Mick Foley y'know, and I don't mean in a soul-searching way - who is the new black. Who is the new black? I dunno, but he's on first. Who's on first? Gosh darn it, if the world only understood baseball the world would be a better place... or should that be a 'batter' place... oh, don't get me wrong for a second, kids, I'm not suggesting that baseball should be all about batting, no no no, the 1920s Batter Only League flopped after a few years because no-one was tossing the balls and gushing into their hands, then licking their palms clean - and boy are the leaves on those palm trees sharp. Kids, heed my advice and stick to munching bananas, it's far more tasty and far far far more Freudian (he was a homosexual y'know; you can see it in his eyes. Not that there's nothing wrong with that, or anything wrong with anything, except killing people and kicking animals, but you know what society is like with their constant need to hate someone for no rational reason. Black people one day, gay people the next, then poets, then black, gay poets, then gay, black poets, then poetic homosexuals of African-American descent, then African-those eight or nine other countries that exist that aren't American poets of homosexual descent - not that it's right to be non-American, or that homosexuality is hereditary, but Freud's children were all gay, all four hundred and three of them, and their children were too, and that just proves that we should all just love each other, unless we're cunts in which case we should hate each other, and kill each other to benefit this so-called society we call FUCK it's hot in here. You ready?