When in the office  of human resources, it becomes necessary for one employee to dissolve the Rolling Stones tribute bands which have overstayed their welcome, leaving them with another, and to assume also tired member of the Kiss Army and their "so called" command of the powers of the earth, the "star child's" cosmic rays and equal to nothing more than a stinking pile to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s asshole entitle them, a decent last hurrah at the expense of the opinions of mankind , (ho they do not represent), that they should declare the causes which game them heart disease and tie them to the whipping post.

   We hold these musicians to be losers, that all men are better than bassist, that they are hanging themselves by their guitar straps with certain unalienable blow-job soups, that among these are dirty, nasty  and the retarded.

   When in the bathroom -- flush. Remember, we all have to use it. And no one wants to see the refuse of human (or animal) toilet users, do we? No. So, it becomes necessary for one flush, maybe two, to rid us of our nightmare. Or maybe those little tablets to dissolve the whole mess. But I'm always worried those are some sort of acid that will destroy our plumbing. I recall this one time, I'm sitting on the john, reading an issue of Spin featuring bands which have donated their used prophylactics to hurricane victims reliefe funds (what troopers!), and I thought to myself, used rubbers? I have some of those! But I collect country artists. What a future for collectibles, where fans can collect and trade them with another, and to assume there's some sort of certification available so no one's ripped off (fool me once..!). But then, by the powers of the earth, the damned toilet started to disintegrate right under me. I found myself falling through the floor and into a giant lake of half shit and equal parts urine. It was unholy! A crime to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s lawyer, Jimmy Schweizberg, would most certainly object. Still, these guys who don't flush... you have to respect them. It's like they think something or things entitle them, a decent person would never make that kind of assumption. But assholes, like the opinions of mankind are both plentiful and unique in their own way. Did I talk about assholes in public again? I'm sorry. To think that they should declare the causes which it's okay to talk about assholes and not okay to talk about assholes. But I can't blame all judges for the obnoxious ruling of the one I had. Oh, forget the whole thing. Leave them to the wolves, as they say.

   We hold these prescriptions until five o'clock, by the way. The first to be in line after that gets them, and at a hell of a discount, too. It sounds rough, maybe, that all men are required to show up during a certain time window or lose their prescriptions, but we are convinced that men who take drugs are old enough to have watches, that they are capable of reading these watches by their long hands and shorts, with certain unalienable numbers that tell us the time, so to speak, that among these are even second hands, so no one's excuse for being too late, but people can still be assholes and both me and the head pharmacist are pretty pissed about it. By the way, your total's $57.65. The story about my toilet is free, though.

   When in the smelly bags of human growth hormone, it becomes necessary for one sack of miffed squirrels to dissolve the sanctity of Bootsy's rubber bands which have held on to the funk for far too long <--TAPE SPLICE--> them with another, and to assume that Mario Lemieux and that guy who played Exidor on Mork and Mindy posess the powers of the earth, the fries are up, and equal opportunity enchiladas to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s live-in companion, Ted, entitle them, a decent array of downloads for 99 cents each, the opinions of mankind shouldn't affect my decision to switch from Aquafresh to Crest, and that they should declare the causes which result in that side effect which gives you a four-hour boner, in which case you should take them to the nearest bar. Or my sister.

   We hold these nutz to be slightly sweaty, which is determined to be normal by most leading doctors, that all men are from Jupiter, despite common belief, that they are strung up by their extraneous ear lobe skin with certain unalienable razzmatazz, that among these are chocolate pie, hacked PSP units and the inevitable Trammell-Whitaker double play.

   When in the name of human decency, it becomes necessary for one man to dissolve the several bands which have seperated them with another, and to assume all the powers of the earth, the country and equal rights to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s way entitle them, a decent home the opinions of mankind waine that they should declare the causes which overturn them to the land.

   We hold these laws to be faulty, that all men are idiots, that they are smelly by their asses with certain unalienable gas, that among these are silent, loud and the killer.

   When in the bathroom at Denny's, the smell of human feces battling with the intense odor of industrial ammonia-based cleaner, it becomes necessary for one form of alternative media to dissolve the unrelenting wave of so-called garage bands which have flooded your favorite P2P networks, wasting your bandwidth when you just want some freaky porn. And band names like Barenaked Ladies makes it easy to confuse them with another, and to assume by those pictures you "accidentally" downloaded, all Japanese girls like to dress in schoolgirl outfits and squat on the toilet. But I digress, as the White Sox championship has shaken the powers of the earth, the mental well-being of Nintendo fanboys, and all those Sweet 'N Low and equal sugar packets that are still sitting next to your Grand Slam breakfast. That reminds me, how old are those cakes that rotate in that glass case thingy that sits next to the register? Sure, they look all choclaty and stuff, but they're probably seven weeks old. But they posess those same preservatives that give Twinkies such a long shelf life, a mysterious synthetic polymer to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s Mother can't explain. Yeah, Mother Nature's involved. Can't you tell? She can't figure out what the hell that white stuff is, so she started tossing off hurricanes like so many Ben Wallace rejections. You know, those victims should be given Twinkies since they'll keep for generations. FEMA should've given out Twinkies certificates, you know, something to entitle them, a decent snack that'll also absorb the runoff in their living rooms. But I'm straying. Although my thoughts go against the opinions of mankind and all those other popular WWE wrestlers that the kids seem to like these days, I don't care. I think that they should declare the causes which little pink stuffed fluffy cats, and them to the local Wal-Mart so they can get their deposit back.

   We hold these seats for our friends. They said they were gonna get some Raisinettes and a large Coke, and I expect them to be back soon since they don't want to miss those teaser trailers. You know the ones I'm talking about, that all men are wielding big-ass guns and have washboard abs, that they are indestructible until the last third of the movie, then they're saved by their sidekick, which was the only reason you came to see the movie in the first place. You cried when his sitcom got cancelled, and you just wanted to support his movie projects with certain unalienable coupons you got from the supermarket. You found it at the register, that among these are the Slim Jims, the Tic-Tacs, and those new big-ass TV Guides, which should explain why I'm so wired right now, and the fact remains that I just wasted that extra hour due to Daylight Savings Time ending this weekend. Jeez. I could've been playing Madden.

   When in the car, try not to blow your nose on anything that looks expensive. Do it for your old Uncle Phil. And trust me, though my trunk may smell of human meat, that's just your imagination and the nearness of the lunch hour. When changing lanes, it becomes necessary for one to swerve unpredictably, to let the other drivers know you mean business, and to dissolve the salt crystals that have likely formed on the steering column. Not to mention the bands which have been borrowing my car lately, all of those guys are animals. It's folly to think there's any difference in replacing one of them with another, and to assume that they'll stop borrowing your car just because you've stopped lending it to them. Gravity is one of the most amazing of the powers of the earth, the planet we all live on, remember, and a much cheaper means of accelleration than gasoline. So remember to always park on a hill. Braking should be sudden, and equal parts jerky and frentic. Remember, driving is an art to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s Gate, that awful herbal toothpaste your aunt keeps buying, do not apply. Sure, the Laws of Nature think that their title should entitle them, a decent respect or reverence, but history will show you the opinions of mankind tend to disagree. Fuck nature, unless it's helping you accellerate, that's all I'm sayin', kid. I often shout that they should declare the causes which is a funny thing to yell when somebody expects you to make sense. Then I feed them to the lions, if I have any lions handy at the moment.

   We hold these joysticks here, now you take one, hold it like this, to be funny. They don't do anything to operate the car. One thing driving will teach you is, of course, that all men are cowards when you aim the light gun from a Nintendo at them on the freeway, and also of course, that they are easily forced off the road if you display dominance. You can tell that by their eyes. If their eyes bug completely out of their heads, you've got 'em. Now one thing you need to know about this car, it comes with certain unalienable safety measures, to keep the aliens out. So don't forget, ever, that among these are these flashing cone things that should be kept stocked with fresh AA batteries, this alienaceptic spray foam that looks just like Reddi Whip and the purple bazooka there in the back seat. Oh, and don't change the fucking radio station. I love the oldies.

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