Saturday, December 25, 2010

Signing The Five-Tomato Treaty Before Sunrise

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.

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