I came in from Aransas Pass and saw candy wrappers under Jim's porch swing, meaning he spent his weekly $10 on low blood sugar. Fixing beans & salt pork & chilies atop 2 or 3 unfinished stews in crockpot, I noted paucity of house food. Bob had this afternoon already risen and he said the city is threatening about our unmowed yard and I said I would get it tomorrow if our mower is working. Beans take time so Bob got a last hamburger patty (9 days old about. Jim still has this inhibition about ever fixing anything out of the fridge for self - fried fish he will finger and eat a piece, but not other stuff, insane. He'd accept it if I fixed it for him but I quit) out of fridge, and there was mayo and bread. Re. LL, 3 or 4 years back, not even Jim now has to eat U.S. white bread, as first I had introduced the brothers to brown bread, then to start, Bob brought in brown for him and white for Jim, and it proved simpler to bring in only brown, and now they both get to eat the preferred. Jim will put peanut butter on it, the one thing he will do, on table feeds insects too. Bob's big burger is pushed speedily through his face. Sometimes Bob buys a certain whole grain cereal for self, has a side of cabinet for self, or Bob will drive out to get himself a pint of ice cream to eat at television. No ice cream for Jim who sometimes has high cholesterol, nor eggs, but neither are eating eggs, but I do, drink six in morning. Mostly the brothers are eating sweet roles, vast amounts especially when I am in Aransas, Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays into Mondays now, when I get $20 for yardwork for Lyla and eat my parents' food. This day the cruddy table holds a score of the empty plastic containers for sweetbread, falling piling under table, one container on table still has two cinnamon roles, there is no peanut butter this day and Jim's gut is sick from sugar vaguely, he is out of B-complex and paces and babbles, averging diabetes. Pants Falling Down Man. Indin on rez get diabetes. I, having run through my money, think to not buy Jim this $7 or $8 18-pack of Red Dog cans to calm him down. I toss last week's empty Red Dog carton from fridge, as only I do that. Privately, I am perusing my work and finishing a sixer of Guinness Extra Stout, but these matters get on my nerves. By and By, from off bicycle with Medicine, I pick up milk for self (Bob gets their milk, low fat for Jim's cholesterol) and 18 pack Red Dog for Jim, a few awkward blocks to haul. Too, I keep foodstuffs in here these days, maybe sausage, cheese, nuts, bananas, fearing that low blood sugar, it makes a person crazy, any rate I am fine, myself. It is interesting, Jim is too stretched to discover the beer waiting on beans, thus sacks out babbling unto troubled sleep but Bob goes into his room to give him his pills. Giving Jim his pills is Bob's job here. Bob takes his own pills, gets satisfaction giving Jim his pills. If Jim is drinking a lot of beer this is against pill rules and then Bob will not give Jim his pills. Bob wants the rules, any beer cheer from Jim bothers Bob about the pills.
It is not the guns, it is the lies. Respect for authority is the root of all evil in the city state. U.S. made land mines kill/maim children uncounted. Possibly, in total, turn of century in the decline of civilization as we know it, Russian or NATO bombs get more kids than land mines made in U.S. of A., but...probably not. A few children accidentally shot by guns in U.S. get counted, for Gore, but Gore's new image got to his head and he tried to gobble W. Bush's stuff in Miami. A third of the benumbed U.S. population could possibly turn out to vote for one of these two jackoffs. Probably after Little Elian, most citizens will vote Republican in old hope this is where the money is.
The Elian opera like the O.J. opera has a significance beyond schizophrenia, is processing schizophrenia slowly closer to a reality. Authority is no good. Cuban music is good. Was it Dylan, or who, said: What if there were a war and nobody came?

CXXXXIII on page 1781, line 12 from top, the thou is supposed to be a thine. I amend that the Corpus paper does not often print photos in its editorial section. I am looking at the paper since my letter and they are frequently using photos there now. I am working to curb my bent for generalization. And so, illicit billions in the U.S. cannot be counted but the weekly billions seized are small fraction. Wall Street speaks of inflation, but is it illicit billions in circulation causing much of the extra? Can circulation of illicit billions, or legalization and removal of said, harm more the buying power of our needful middleclass? Blackolive is no economist, certainly. He but refused old maidenly gainful employment that he stand free to sniff the storm.

24 April
Enclosed is check. Hope things are well with you.
Life is sad and interesting. We can 't get food to Ethopians but we can focus on a little boy who should have been sent immediately to his father.
Longhorns smell the water and crash white trash fencing. They are very athletic and quick. Sheriff of Bandera calling me to tell me my longhorns have crossed the river and are entering subdivisions. There I am in the early morning hours searching for my longhorns. Whee. I find them and lead them back before nightfall. Later - Kelly

Kelly has several longhorns out on the Medina River property. He and Janus live a couple hours away in Seguin where they are physical therapists. Also in his practice he manages this stable of horses for therapy for kids. He and Janus have built a house on the river property. We have a fourty-seven acres there, I think it is.
Two old friends, whom I had not seen for decades, are early retired and healthy and mellow (as opposed to bitter) and alert (as opposed to dull) and reading Last Laugh, Jack Jones and Bill Sims. Jackie is three or four years younger than I and his family had been next door to us on Harbor Island. I had met the family I think in 1945 or shortly before Kelly was born. Our fathers were close friends who worked for Standard oil and were transferred to foul Baytown around 1960, refinery area adjacent Houston, when Kelly was maybe in the eighth grade, playing football and all that area is crazy about high school football. Jackie's brothers Jimmy and Larry went to high school in stinking Baytown and around that time Jackie went into the idiot air Force for the 3 or 4 years and sister Carol who had been David Moconchie's serious girlfriend in Aransas Pass High School was likely in college at that point. As I had mostly recovered from some hepatitus at my parents' in maybe 1963, Jackie not long free of the Air Force, and Tommy Atkins another of us whose father had been transferred from Aransas to Baytown and whose surviving mother lives on property next to our strip on the Medina River - and we should have had traveling Dan McConchie with us but he had run off with a girl as usual at that point - fought with some like rowdies on the Galveston sea wall, or say Tommy did not quite as he fell off and broke his cheekbone on something and was unconscious - fortunately it was only maybe six feet there. But these are other accounts and in early April of 2000 Jack and sister Caryl and surviving mother Lorraine visited with my parents and me in Aransas, few hours. Carol also gave me Old Dave's Questa, N. Mex. address, for LL had returned from his Albuquerque old address and she had phoned him. Dave's ex, Sherry, appears to be taking care of him, had answered the phone, and David confused Caryl slightly in carrying on about his being on marijuana all these years, so I explained to her he is working hard at being deranged enough to qualify for SSI. Jack I had not seen since early seventies and I joyed to find us in much accord. But the difference we have is whereas I would save the world Jack would detachedly watch mankind self distruct. Though he is not smoking pot, or is not going to ever seek it, he and friends in Lousiana where he lives do talk about the fear in legalization being economical. Thus the prison industry, police corruption, mounting fear and loathing of U.S. government.
Bill Sims also does not smoke pot and also talks of encountering much distrust of U.S. government. Bill Sims I have known since 1950, grade school in Port Aransas. He and wife (her name slips me at this typing) are back in the Port Aransas house of his late parents. I think he said his sixtieth birthday is May 29. Like Jack he has grown kids and is himself young and fit and bright and alert. AS with Jack Jones I have laid on the past five LLs.
Today is April 19 of 2000. Past weekend I was in Aransas Pass, Nancy Jean had a birthday party at the Angler Courts and Bill Sims and wife attended, and Bill met Nancy Vaughn. He reported to Nancy Vaughn he has been reading Last Laugh, before learning Nancy Vaughn chooses to not read Last Laugh. I quote with Bill's permission. Nancy Vaughn: Well, Billolive knows I am a feminist's feminist, and if you disagree with Billolive he gets mad.
I hardly have definition for "feminist." I have not used the word in my life, doubt I have heard Nancy Vaughn use the word. Any disagreement I have had with Nancy Vaughn has been during her drinking, when she may aggress on males with whom she is familiar, when other people are talking at other conceptions and like as not the pickonee is talking at other shit too. At this moment I do not recall anything off Nancy Vaughn about any kind of liberation. Fact is, in my case, folks all my life are nervous at my desire to see everything ungnarled in total, no limits on anybody or anything. Respect others, then do as thou wilt. Anything I write, TG, MZ, LLa, or anything I say or do. In Madam Z and Billy, the Madam has Billy always spanking her and what not but the Madam is in charge. This rattles some folks but what is this they are rattled about? Nancy Vaughn chooses to not even read Last Laugh, nor can I today recall whatever have we disagreed about. I think, when she is not drinking, we agree.
Women have enjoyed reading Madam Z or Texas Gang, and I have been told by Kelly's wife, Janus, and by unmarried Joy in New York, that Last Laugh is "a male thing." These three women, Nancy Vaughn, Janus, Joy, are best friends, have all read some LL earlier, and now elect to not read it. I believe I usually get along with all three. Attempts to hear why they do not read LL are futile, or just what is a male thing, or what might they imagine I am, or is Madrea what, or what then can they categorize women readers of Last Laugh to be. If I press for any illumination someone may get cross, is my experience. Times are stranger on all levels.
Meantime down here, nobody much talks to me about Last Laugh. I give a copy to Steve Vaughn and later he will add that he liked it, and he lends it to the Men's Club which is Nancy Jean's studio now, where is normally conducted Happy Hour in the evenings. Steve did tell me people enjoyed the old photos in CXXXXIII. Woman in first photo on first page is Charmaine, my first wife, human on this Earth I love. Charmaine is no way ever by other women thought unfree, but re. LL there was some evening a few years back Nancy Vaughn was pushing some disagreement at me about Charmaines being...dishonest...I can't remember, would have to look at back IL. Plainly in the photo Charmaine is not pretentious, not affectatious. Bullshit women are really not the kind who come after me. Really, I am scary, have no money, not even small talk, I only get the rare, bold women. Could Nancy Vaughn have thought page 1757, Port Aransas in the Wintertime male chauvenism, wha? The rest of the story is lost, less maybe Charmaine did not lose the copy I sent her, but probably she lost it, never would say. "Unlicensed pussy." Funny, ah, sad.
Look at p. 1767, Dear Reader, 11 year old Madrea's letter found in old cardboard box with photos and things. The Grow Beat newspaper piece Mike had found for me in yard must have fallen from the box, now I think, someway when I'd carried box from shed. Now I recollect, few years back getting along with Nancy V., I told her I had sent my kid this lovely little dagger I had come across, for Xmas. I was proud of this but our libber was not the moment drinking, and did not reply, uncertain a dagger is an appropriate gift for little girl, I suspect. Yeh, I would ungnarl all.
People like living in cardboard boxes, when they can't get the steel cages. 0.J. smacked his ex or did he just tumble her on her head into their shrubbery. Talk about a bunch of yelling drunks down here. Fake car chase, planted gloves, planted socks, planted tracks, inconceivable logistics, dumb cops, crooked cops, crooked lab tests, husbands who have killed wives have most times hit them on some days before taking a day to kill them.
I rattle libbers, gays, vegans, over the decades, by being distracted from their issues, by not being inspired by their categories. Take the vegans, I will not debate do thousands of acres of grain choke out more species than a bufallo herd. Half a century and more people try to place him who was uncertain he is human into their categories. My patience is gone. And what are my issues. My issues those in boxes miss, in they get blinded by machismo, for some reason. But, yes, the Children of the Earth. Madrea and I are going to see what shall be done for the little Children of the Earth.
"I can't believe this can happen in America."
Schizoid platitude of the date, April 23. The Miami Cubans learn their U.S. schizoprenia pretty good, and TV politicians are chanting the above fantastic utterance as well. And most fantastico, grown men and women on television verbalize for minutes on end will Little Elian choose "poltical asylum."
Is it since the seventies U.S. males love to weep on television? Who is this fisherman.
When I sit in marvel or exclaim, B.E. wishes to bicker and bring it to my not having a job, same instant he cannot remember anything to bring toward any subject matter in his effort. What he can get from TV is math, math without much context, thousands, millions, billions, he and Bonnie have math ability. He was good in poker. Bonnie no good, emotional, of course. So he hears, exclaims, on the Ethopia famine. Or L.A. cop scandal or tons of cocaine in a South Texas bust, etcetera. I sit trying to remind myself to bridle the commentary, because he has no couth, will take it to the Great White Depression he grew up in and when am I going to get a job to support my family, when I am wanting to hear something off the box. Silently to self April 24 television reflect, these guys who smile at loss of ten billion, Bill Gates, whoever. If I had a ten billion I could use nine billion to buy airplanes and soy beans and wheat and smart honest (more orless) personnel and fuck the jackoffs just drop it on the people, parashoots, so yes, large corporate farming kills species but would not this be just very, very interesting...Had I ten billion....I surely know to not bring up any fantasy to B.E. who wants me to get a job.
Yet near his angry death I seem to be getting to him a tiny bit. We happen to be getting along, fifteen minutes to the next fifteen minutes, more often than we are not. Preoccupied with the screen I retort to B.E. that I am just amazed. Amazed at what? demands he, to reach for any shot about get-a-job. He is gamey, can't well regather sentences 3 or 4 minutes earlier, with the son who, as Hatch puts it, sets him off,sinceabout1955.My-friends-could've-whipped-your-friends-son-and-i-could've-thrown you. There came the terrible wrestling incident in is it 1958. I appreciate all he has done, the confidence. Bitter at 1958 it came to be the get-a-job, I grew up in The Depression. Support your family. I have a daughter, I shout. My daughter and I are in accord. Do you know what we are doing, do you want to, hell no. But April 24 I am so flabergasted at the box, he reveals himself. He said: Haven't you ever been duped? I said: Hell no. Well, if you ever had a job! No, no, I don't want to get brain washed, I have to stay awake! B.E. is gripped in snarl. I carry on growl. If I have to be a bum to stay awake so be it! So you admit you're a bum! Sure I'm a bum, if I'd got a job I might've been brainwashed like everybody else! Well, I have no respect for somebody who has a family and won't support them! Now I grew up in The Depression, myself. Daddy, is The Depression your religion? Mexico has always been in a depression. This is getting too real for him. Daddy, depression is about white people! Black people in the U.S. were depressed before The Depression. I don't want to hear it, he snarls. This bangs his cage. Do you know, men with assault rifles are crossing into Texas right now? I don't care, when are you going to support your family! I stay in touch with my daughter and she is a writer like I am! So what, everybody I know can write, says B.E.

What now is impossible to tell B.E. is R.D. Hatch III, my old friend who became the Olive family attorney, who hunts deer with his brother-in-law since the seventies and the brother-in-law is retired Border patrol, a few days ago told me the brother-in-law, alone in a deer blind out of Uvalde, Tx, which is fifty or sixty miles from the border, saw but was unseen by, wetbacks backpacking marijuana, which is nothing odd except for its being in the day, and that, these guys were guarded by other guys who besides being armed with assault rifles were "dressed in black." This is midway between Mexico and San Antonio, where somebody should have come from to meet them but something was off, and they were pressed, moving in the day. poorest men, poorest drug runners but armed, organized to resist mere Border patrolmen or posturing rednecks.
The brother-in-law did get to his cell phone and call the Border Patrol. No, he did not hallucinate assault rifles, said Hatch. He owns an AK-47 himself , said Hatch. I have asked my attorney to get particulars how many men, guns, but particularly, how or why can the south Texas dipshit newspapers ignore this, this past deer season, November. Surely things are changing but this is faster than I had anticipated. Hatch and I could not remember offhand how many/few years back, U.S. Marines were brought to the Texas border, and it seemed pointless. They then shot to death a teenage goatherder who had a .22 rifle and were withdrawn for doing this. But it is understood regular gun-toting officials can not fight experienced guerrillas. That requires trained troops. Possibly, only mindless bureaucracy had suggested the Marine Corps a very few years back. As Hatch put it though, to stumble into something like this in day, chances are many times that is happening at night.

Afternoon of April 26 Hatch calls me at the Brundretts', while I am really enjoying the weeping fisherman. I was just about to learn off TV something about who is this guy. Hatch had called the brother-in-law and got details. Now do you have a pencil and paper? said Richard Hatch. I ran and got pen and pad, O.K., Richard. The brother-in-law had counted fifteen men. Two of these looked like normal wetbacks and they carried huge white packs. The 13 others were dressed in black, without any packs, and two had rifles with banana clips, wore belts of ammunition, bandoleers. They were moving east to west at 9 A.M. The brother-in-law considered maybe they'd been turned around by this thick early morning fog someway. So they were used to walking at night and got thrown off someway but why white packs? Maybe the packs'd been parashooted, hell, Bill, I don't know. But you can figure there is more of this, that doesn't get seen. No, it's not been in the papers, my brother-in-law thinks tbey got away because nothing was in the papers, or maybe the papers don't want to disturb the land owners who lease out all this deer hunting country. O.K., Richard. Thanks much, I'll let you go now and be putting a Last Laugh together. Alright, Bill. But, later in week, I have to bother Richard further, like if the 11 other desperadoes in black have neither packs nor rifles what the fuck, but nobody knows, the brother-in-law had said he could not tell about side arms. So, those guys were really thrown off. Had survived a chase or gunfight or some such. More to come, Dear Reader.
We returned from Aransas pass and Bob's burned carrots & ribs commanded the house. It sat out on the stove a couple of days waiting for Bill and Medicine. In the big oven pan the carrots whose ends Bob does not cut off were scorched through, and they went out the open window above stinking sink to green foilage, lush reclaiming. The ribs were partly good enough for Medicine, but the pan itself a bad job. But in some cheer I shoved Red Dog into fridge right over from Jim's room in talk about the unfairness of it all and he rose from bed and got a beer before his pants fell down, and I scoured the pan, sufficiently to lay in chicken breasts, potatoes, onions, garlic, then get onto my work in my room.
There was the Jack Jones letter with Robert D. Kaplan's The Coming Anarchy. It is a short book and I read it in two days. Knowing nothing of the guy, I had begun with excitement, but he gives speeches for and sits around talking to so called new intellectual military types, intelligence people and elete forces sorts. Kaplan's book began looking to me like a part in a long approach for military takeover in the U.S. This is revealing itself more by a chapter where he says Nixon and Kissinger may not look so bad in history afterall. U.S. history but of course. Kaplan has been hither thither, wars and famines, encounters and reads, from the universe of men who wear ties. He has had plane fare to go look at revolutions and matters of politics and vanity and treachery. He works for the Atlantic Monthly. He enjoys classical literature without a sense for art. It seems to him anarchy is synonymous with mobs and wanton killing, and it seems to me he feels time shall come for right people to grab the helm. I was rolling along like this reading him, not disturbed, Dear Reader, mind ye, hell no. I was sinking drearied, I thank ye. Then he came to Conrad, yes. I gather he often brings up Conrad. Like these damn fools who might bring up Kipling, damn. Pretty funny though, they cannot do shit with Melville. Ah, Kaplen needs LSD badly, he talks of Conrad's Nostromo's applying so well to our times. He rather dismisses my possible favorite novel, Conrad's most famed Heart of Darkness. Said it is short and thin of plot and has a bunch of description of the countryside and is thus "amenable to skimming." Whew. Help us all. I had got that far, then came in Cindy's Doris 15. Man. Take me home.
I really don't precisely know how old blood brother Jones is regarding the Kaplan books at this time. Jones is one of these people possessing curiosity with objectivity. Really, most of my old friends thought O.J. did it. One (of two of the white guys I know of - one is Stu Magness) thinking he did not do it is TV addict Murray Rosenwasser who now resides in Guatamala because it is cheap and it is his lala land, hobnobs with CIA. Says Guatamala is a democracy. Kaplan likely says so. Says Murray, because of rampant crime the same strong man gets voted in who had killed the fathers and grandfathers of these voters.
What in one example these grab-the-helm people, order-at-all-costs, miss now: The youth and new technology, "the new economy."
Argh. We could parashoot in teachers and many, many labtops to the kids. They can learn to read quickly as they can learn to work the damn things. The labtops will get simpler, more simpler.
Jack Jones posseses spirit that is entirely free. As a little kid he liked reckless argument and could lie but was not going to be embarrassed or checked. Responding to his letter I got a wee effusive, beating on Kaplan maybe. Being the artist I brought up the opening of Heart of Darkness, this French ship sending cannon balls into this abandoned thatched-roofed village, to "punish" these happier folk who have naturally faded into the bush. The Frenchmen in the ship die each day of malaria but contribute these bouncing cannon balls. Kaplan thinks Sonomo is more contemporary as it is his take it is about twisted vanities and aboriginal brutality and how even the best of men run more on personal want. Heart of Darkness is impossible to skim. It has the jungle, the quiet, the fury of weak men, their belly.

Whether he knew of this deficiency himself I can't say. I think the knowledge came to him at last - only at the very last. But the wilderness had found him out early, and had taken on him a terrible vengeance for the fantastic invasion. I think it had whispered to him things about himself which he did not know, things of which he had no conception till he took councel with this great solitude - and the whisper had proved irresistably fascinating. It echoed loudly within him because he was hollow at the core..

It is about fear. About puny technological man. Kaplan talks about drug cartels casually without information of economy or drugs or youth globe wide who have no interest in ever wearing any neckties.
Without naming sources Kaplan says in 1996 "U.S. Special Forces were responsible for 2,325 missions in 167 countries involving 20,642 people - only nine per operation, on average."
shortly before they got him, MLK said the U.S. is "the greatest purveyer of violence on earth," and that Green Beret are in Peru. Then he dies, decades ago. Today this political shit about Social 5ecurity jars my father. He cannot follow more than a minute or two but naturally any kind of talk about putting Social Security into the stock market bangs his cage. We can sit here and I'll by and by speak on louder banality or sundry schizophrenia and he jerks to twist it at me getting a job, but anything on Social Security chunks him into higher reality, briefly, purely unwanted. "All these fucking politicians are sick." Snorts and sneers unto vulgarity (in his mind "fucking" is vulgarity), but really though, what the hell is this about Social Security. I had thought Gore would lose, gee. I guess Bush could lose now, or else Daddy and I could loose our Social Security.
Yeh, when a man has no income, commoners question his manhood. Finally, I said, Daddy, yeah, it sounds like a plot to me. Stick everybody's Social Security into the stock market and lose it, then we can have a military takeover.
You're crazy! Whose military, what military!
Ah, I guess the Green Berets. But first everybody will talk about it a long time. This is the American way. They'll take public polls and so on.
You've lost your marbles!

The greasy, slimy swell swung her lazily and let her down,
swaying her thin masts.

Schizoid are our times, that any politician on Larry King cannot call the NATO blockade of Iraq genocide. No matter they know it is not about weapons of mass distruction. Gutless. Without bowels, character. All U.S. role models May 11 in 2000 are watered down shit. All high school kids know it.
Fear rules U.S. massed mentality like a ship lobbing cannon balls. It is preferrable to be on the ship. Eh? Who will lob a nuke, sometime, to a place in the United States?
So great is Heart of Darkness I read it firstly in 1967 laughed aloud this French ship firing its cannon and been reading it, that, such impressic. was that first reading, that, slowly, it gets to me, goddamnit, the village being "punished" was not exactly on the shore, bouncing cannon balls or not exactly at that date, might be the shells were explosive, hell, I don't know because it is insignificant. Only art counts, what it pulls out of one.

Once, I remember we came upon a man-of-war anchored off the coast. There wasn't even a shed there, and she was shelling the bush. It appears the French had one of their wars going on thereabouts. Her ensign dropped limp like a rag; the muzzles of the long six-inch guns stuck out all over the long hull; the greasy, slimy swell swung her up lazily and let her down, swaying her thin masts. In the empty immensity of earth, sky, and water, there she was, incomprehensible, firing into a continent. Pop, would go one of the six-inch guns; a small flame would dart and vanish, a little whit smoke would disappear, a tiny projectile would give a feeble screech - and nothing happened. Nothing could happen.

Hey, Pants Falling Down Man.' You're still here, Pants Falling Down

Jim gets up from the middle room bed this time, Medicine's not having been here. Presently he opens the Red Dog carton in fridge. Yeah, Pants Falling Down Man.. I guess that's me.
We are southern. Faulkner, Cormic McCarthy are southern. We may be southwest and love Mexico but this is southern. Robert E. Lee Cox took his growing family and he worked on the railroad in Mexico and he sold parrots trained in words on the side. You put the parrot in a dark box and talk at it what you want off it. I have been reading a modern novel, Cold Mountain, by a Charles Frazier, southern genius, first novel. Bill Sims gave me this hard cover. It is in the Carolinas in the Civil War. Highly dimensional. This wounded deserter has left a hospital to walk back to his betrothed. I have not finished it. It goes back and forth, from the betrothed to him, very objective... He is a fighter, killing or maiming a few. En route he meets these strong personalities, men and women, whom, I take it, he shall never see again. Keep thinking do I want to send this to Sam in New Mexico or Cindy who lives in Asheville or Madrea whose tastes I am trying to learn. Or should I just keep this fine hardcover to look at further. I had told Bill Sims I read the classics but he said try this, this guy kind of reminds me of you, he has all these adventures on his way back to his woman, you can keep it or throw it away if you don't like it.
Whoo. Landsake. Shit on fire.

The other day Bill Guiggenback yelled pants Falling Down Man at me. You know how he is. Just yelled at me right in town. He's like this big kid on the play-ground.
Yeah, I know. He's like this big kid on the school yard. Sometimes he grabs Tiddle in a neckhold, like this, like a big kid, heh.
Yeah, that's exactly how he is, a big kid on the school yard. I kinda like him, but don't think I want to get t0o envolved with him.

Dear Reader, to sum CXXXXIV.
It was May 12 of 2000. I came in utterly sober, saw a Jerry Springer gob of spit - a pack of perverted parents running their 8 year olds through what is now on the sicker talk shows called "boot camp". Obstacle courses, situps, adult men dressed like DIs screaming to humiliate weeping 8 year old boys.
Truly I Saw this.,
What do you know about raising kids, you can't even get a job to support your family, snarled B.E.
On Jerry Springer the adults loved it.
Dear Reader, we know the children are angry.