Ladies and gentlemen, Greg Fruits, hey, hey now, on a Wednesday night, Mark Sturdy,

at the Zoonway Record, this fine program, when you hear it, is entirely up to you and the

whims and caprices of the Massey Wheel of Fortune that spins endlessly greetings and

salutations, Hazaz and Helios from the highest stoner to the lowest and most erud valley of

reality star, but you welcome one and mostly all.

Forget the disappointment and harve the news, leave the personal cares and woes outside

on the hip bustling and velvety wildly gay streets of Hollywood West and come into my

loving prute pouch and feel the warm embrace of the only show that gets you.

The smartest man in the world, I will say what you want to say because I feel what you feel,

the paralyzing helplessness to change the world, the swirling vortex of disinformation

and misinformation that smote our brains and confuse our feelings.

Britney Spears, Zaftig, pop star and mother to the spawn of Federline is meaty, beefy,

dazed and uncoriographed and back on the road, lip-sinking her Dr. Pepper drenched heart

out, it's your time to shine.

And take back the night.

The mist rest and chicanery that lion vexing wait for us around every lunchtime encounter,

vicious text and shitty petty phone call.

Little pupils rise with me and laugh at the trolls and ruck with the warlocks, I too

wait eagerly for the raspberry dawn and the bustle of heterodoxy that stimulates us all.

Down with Mars, the god of war and up with Venus, the goddess of love and bakus, the goddess

of theater and wine, fuck it, let's dance to the jokes, let's joke to the dance, let's

say the ball-tomp, roulet, let the good times roll, 7am waking up in the morning, gotta

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