Let’s lay our cards on the table. Either you’ll die laughing at this fitting fable for our simple times, when all’s white with the world, and black is the color of my true love’s heir, or not. Rue not the sprue.
Osama bin one bad motherfucker, gotta give him that. Counted coup big time on yonder seaboard. Or so they say. Himself disclaims credit. Ancient history now.
Inland, from beyond the Bitterroot to the frontiers of the Flathead, tribes were called to cache in their buffalo chips. “Listen up yo captains of industry. May God grant you the grace to suck up your forty pieces.”
I stopped by the beauty salon to say goodbye to my wife.
To speak ballistically, and in all hottentotitude, those baden-baden mothfoggers are marching to their own drummer, all dumbed up on sanctity and god bless America, god damn it to fucking hell. Are you beginning to get the point? United we stand with a bird in the hand.
By fucking Osama we have slipped the bonds of Echelon and thrown Carnivore a tasty fiche for its quarterly report. Saint Bill of the Gates will claim his pound of flesh, but it’s two hundred percent deductible. We gonna give him a plutonium enema. Right upside the head. Okay, slow down before we get a bust, if you wood get my drift.
Now is the time for all of us half-bad men to consult their palm pilots, and make like Samson in all his glories. Women mutatis mutandis, or, as they say downtown, nematodes to the Monroe Doctrine.