bitch betta have my money!
I got$ta get paid. I mean paid IN FULL, all you homies, homos, and chocolate-dipped bananas out there. I'm tired of niggaz flakin' and perpetratin' and prevaricatin' and bitin' my shit. I'm the originator, the terminator, the elucidator, the king of the turntables AND the cross-fader. You ain't my poppy—you a sloppy carbon copy, so the shit has gotta stop, G. My skillz is so mad, they sent 'em to Anger Management. I can crack walnuts with my mind, even if those walnuts is sittin' in a bowl all the way across the room. I'll snatch yo eyeballs out of yo head and hide 'em from ya.
Word to your momma's dentures, my inarticulate woodchimps.
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Our first question comes from Cynthia in Maryland:
Q: How do YOU get over a bad breakup?
A: I go to prison.
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I've added a weird, super-short story from 1979 to the new page. I did too much acid in high school.
