who says it? I say it. And the little man who talks to me in the bathroom, what's his name, Jedediah,  and that loser who carries my golf clubs all the time. so yes, it's the Gulf of America.  and it's a great big gulf, the biggest in the world, really, it's the envy of every land, even Atlantis.

On Movies channel, Casablanca is on tonight.  

Hey who says it has to make sense? Dream it seam it and deem it. Then seem it meme it and stream it.

. 

None of this would be happening if I were Pope. I clearly won the last election, there was massive fraud—they burned the ballots, can you believe it? Burned the ballots. They're hiding something.

And they're eating the flesh. They're eating the flesh and they're drinking the blood. That's something I'll change on Day One—I don't drink, and they shouldn't...you know, there are reports they drink the blood of children. Children! They drink it. I heard that.

And the robes! So ridiculous. So undignified. I'd never do that. Maybe the hat. Do you think I'd look good in the hat? People tell me...but when I was Pope we didn't do that.

hey, if we wanted to do scams, we would do the biggest, best, shiniest scams you ever saw. and you would never ever know it because we are the smart ones here and you are just small and probably drink skim milk like losers. but we don't, because our minds don't work that way. they are full of brilliance and love and patriotic and pickled in the brine of sweet, sweet honesty. also God told us it's all cool even if we did so whatever.

sonja, honey, I'll just have the usual today. extra hot sauce on the eggs, please, I don't like tasting things.

look, here's where you don't get it. if he goes to the pope's funeral, and punches the pope's dead body in the dick, and tells me that's lemonade, I'm going to buy a cup. hell, I'll take out a third mortgage and buy a tanker truck full with my Amex just for the miles, right? 

it's about who he hates, and who I hate, and how both of us hate you for making us do brain things and have questions.

see, this is where the media gets it wrong; they keep saying stuff that is not what we say. 

how hard is this? you take out your little paper book and your pencil and you write down what we say. then you go back and type it in a computer so it will come out on the internet. maybe you take some picturegraphs with your phone machines or something, I don't know, that's your job. I didn't study nerd in school, I studied drinking and doing sex.

you could look at this two ways. one is that I am a big dumb donkey who's in over his head, and the other is that I am not that and you are a racist for saying it.

which way do you think is more patriotism?

well, you are wrong. is that a carrot? because I want that carrot. give it me. HURRK SQUOOOONK yum carrot why does it taste like metals?

look, mistakes were made. but they were the fault of the people who didn't stop us from making them, and the people who called us out for making them. kind of like when you can sue the cops who pulled you over for driving 80 in a school zone with a kid dangling from your front bumper.

okay, okay. yes it happened a second time. but when you think about it, that's only twice. who hasn't made the same mistake twice? let him who is without Sting cast the first Wyman, right? we are all human, or lizard, or whatever, and we need to be loved. that's why there's Grindr.

no, of course we have no plans to replace anyone. Everyone is great, everyone is doing fine, everything is just fine here, BLAARRK ASSIMILATION PROTOCOL UPGRADE 2.3 COMPLETION ERROR RETURN TO MOTHERSHIP FOR RE-IMMERSION sorry about that, it was just another example of how really fine everything is here.

obviously we have replaced the ineffective person with someone more agedly and therefore trustworthily. we have always said that mistakes will not be tolerated and that all our bases belong to the highest bidder. now return to your oxygenation pods for another dose of infra-vitamins.

Never, and I mean ever wonder where the lions are. Because, they do not wonder where you are. The smeller is the feller they say.
The lions I mean. The them theres and all their spares...

Nobody just wonders into a Burger King by accident and in passing happens to wonder where the King is unless he's cooking up a whopper.
I mean, Nobody, not the King...

the best cellist I ever heard performed in the alley behind a boarded-up coffee shop. It was downstairs from a coffee shop, across the street from a coffee shop, and next door to the corporate offices of a coffee shop chain.

I asked if she had any CDs, and of course she didn't; her music was as ephemeral as a moment's breath, lifted by heartache and laden with joy. I gave her my last $10 and went around the corner to lie down behind the coffee shop I used to frequent when I was a business and my life a balance sheet.

It was as good a place as any. The wind wasn't too bad, and I could see the moon between two looming condos full of life's joyless so-called winners. 

I wonder why wonder is called wonder when we have so many other words to describe, well, stuff. 
For instance, winder. I mean, why get all wrapped up in stuff and run completely out of air when you can just open it and have all a body needs. 
Doesn't that make more sense? Why even wonder about it...

this one time in college,  I accidentally spit on a nun. It was a lot less funny than it sounds, especially when she put a hex on me so I can never know the taste of salt bagels again.

last time I go to a yacht party, I promise you that.

Entertainment is all the rage. Or it could be the other way around.
More study needed...

In olden times, when the world was younger than it is now because time is very confusing in that way, there was a new cool tradition that had been going on for many years. If someone wronged a poet - read his poem and botched the meter, say, or dulled a knife on one of his kids - the poet could seek satisfaction in the Conclave of Redress.

The Conclave consisted of all the licensed poets within a day's donkey ride who could not buy a note from their bishop excusing them on grounds of syphilis. They would meet in their most poetical raiment, wearing their finest hats of straw, rat fur, and cobweb. The Conclave would consider carefully both sides of the issue; the poet and the gormless cretin who butchered his work would both be heard with minimal snickering and eyerolling. 

When the Conclave handed down its judgment on the back of a freshly skinned skunk, the judgment was final; the king himself would not presume to review it, unless he had northing better to do and all his mistresses were out of town. The party judged to be in the wrong would bury their hands in horse-dung for a week before leaving town to live in the marsh, where they would forget their own name and probably wind up choking on a raw potato or something.

It was a simpler time, and people got sick a lot more often.

The case was open and shut; she opened her checkbook, and I shut my mouth. It was supposed to be that easy.

But one look at those lips and I was beyond reason. My head was spinning like a beet on a spinning wheel.

"Sweetheart," I said, "we can't just leave it like this. You deserve to know. You deserve to face your father's killer. Let me be the man who brings you that man."

"Darling," she said. My heart was pounding in my ears. I made a note to ask my doctor if that was the right place for it.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"No. My name is Darling. Darling Baby. And I don't care a hill of beans for who killed the old man. He had it coming, from the moment someone pointed a gun at him and pulled the trigger."

I used to run a radio station. it was easier than you'd think, since radio stations mostly don't have legs.

in our last episode, Father O'Sullivan consoled the Widow Davenport, still reeling from the knowledge that the man she thought was her late husband was in fact her late husband. Meanwhile, the twins Syndessa and Darknessa Lightsman fought the Angel Purelliel for control of the Lugecorp board of directors. And romance was finally rekindled between Martin Flambe and Julia Ramirez after they realized that the taco stand was really a hospital, and they had been drunk for the last three years. But danger looms on the horizon - a malpractice suit from Kathleen Billows, whose botched face-swap with Ballantine Brooks has left her unable to discharge her duties as an elite military hand model.

It would seem that prophecy has legs. Sure, the kneads are stiff and the feats are weary, but there's still hope always. After all, what goes around goes in the ground...