Love: The Sickest Of Irony’s Sick Jokes.

It Was An Eight-harlot Inn, If That's How You Measure An Inn. (i Understand That Now They Measure Inns In Stars. We Are In A Four-star Inn Right Now. I Don't Know What The Conversion From Harlots To Stars Is.)

Stephenie Meyer: Her Vampires Are Sparkly, Which I Think We Can All Agree Is Wrong.

Perhaps There Is A Reason That There Is No Fool Piece On The Chessboard. What Action, A Fool? What Strategy, A Fool? What Use, A Fool? Ah, But A Fool Resides In A Deck Of Cards, A Joker, Sometimes Two. Of No Worth, Of Course. No Real Purpose. The Appearance Of A Trump, But None Of The Power: Simply An Instrument Of Chance. Only A Dealer May Give Value To The Joker.

Last Time I Really Got To Know Myself It Turned Out There Was A Whole Gang Of Bitches In There To Deal With. I Felt Like The Receptionist At A Rehab Center. They All Had Nice Tits Though, I Gotta Say.

Shoes Off In The Whale! And Don't Try And Make A Break For The Anus.