I don't know about you (ed. note: I do but am lying) but I'm detecting a pattern (ed. note: I don't but am lying). I wake up liberally concussed on the red line. I'm greeted at the NoHo station by the Andorran Secretary of Defense ("Lau Lau" to his black ops pals [statement retracted]) and his crew of mustachioed pit bosses. I'm cursorily frisked and curiously grilled (over a cherry wood fire with hints of mace and allspice) about the sole season of Blansky's Beauties (will the Happy Days spin-off machine ever end?!... What's that now? Oh. *sniff*). I'm revolved about seventeen times (this detail variation tells me I'm not suffering Chronic Repetitive Aberrant Precognitive Somnambulance [copyright 2010, Rubber Bomb UnLtd]). Delivered to Downtown Gino's Pizza and Pasta and Shooting Range mutefolded (my constant whistling puts them off) and am ordered a slice of pep and a Coke for two bucks. Not a bad deal, until I'm clobbered on the head.
The Späten Song (Issue 2) The short and sordid story behind the history of the discovery and subsequent adoption of our very own international anthem.
Number One Bomb (Issue 1) You gotta step on the doormat if you wanna walk through the door! That is, uh... you, uh... y'know what we mean... right?
More? Still?! Well then... you, my friend, are just foolish enough --SCRATCH THAT-- discerning enough to muck up your home and office with Rubber Bomb emblazoned merchandise! Why, they've even got funny descriptions to keep you laughing all the way to our bank.