I throw in some strawberries, some blueberries.

If I'm feeling excited about it, I'll get some fudge.

But you never shoved up your ass and shit it in somebody else's house.

From the smallest room in New York City.

I'm not saying never.

I mean, I don't know what, I don't know what tomorrow will bring.

Comes a show that gives you a reason to live.

Here's a Shaolin Weirdie, an old coot, formerly farting dust, now deceased. Found that way in the hallway of this forgottenboro apartment building.

With the message written across his chest, I touch little girls.

Before you ask, no, it's not the president of the United States, Joe Biden.

It's a different guy.

His name's Robert Raynor, or was.

And he's found just after 9.30 a.m. Monday inside the first floor hallway

of 256 Corson Avenue in Tompkinsville. You know the place.

You know, most people write their suicide notes on paper, maybe the wall, but I give him credit

for improvising. He was found by his upstairs neighbor, uh, who told the post

that he was jolted awake early in the wee hours of Monday by a ruckus in the building, a fucking

ruckus. It was so loud, I could hear it over the air conditioner. That's 40-year-old Isaac Williams.

I said, what the hell are they doing down there? It was a loud banging.

Like, boom, boom, boom. He says, like people were wrestling or someone was throwing somebody around.

It seems like he figured that out after the fact.

Williams eventually dozed off despite the noise. You're fucking, if they're wrestling,

...