How do you pass up the opportunity to spit blood in Joan Baez's face?

I've read Mark Twain. I've read Huckleberry Finn. I think I earned the right to go out of the internet and see a guy get a chainsaw on the face. Dude, my dad was drunk and my mom was dealing with it. Guess what? I get raised by a lucky monster.

My con looks like it's been in a hockey flight. Time is stupidity. It's at the speed of goddamn light.

I got a bunch of the clocks.

Hey, what's happened?

I'm like a minute, 40-year-old boy podcast.

I am doing a podcast.

How are you?

I'm fine.

Thank you.

I'm here at a table by a desk recording.

That seems weird.

Hold on a second.

Why would I say that? I'm not at a desk. I'm not at a table by a desk.

Who would have a table by a desk?

Let's break that down for just a second.

Why the fuck that didn't even enter my brain?

I only have several tables in the house.

I have two desks.

And they're not next to one another.

That would just, you know what?

Actually, let me correct myself. I have nothing but tables and desks. That's all I have in my house. My house is just a plethora of

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