I am to contemporary writing what Yoda is to George Lucas' scrotum I have a magical assortment of scowls and cherry vanilla moist towelettes. When I strut I am so 'Rebel without a cause' that in fact I realize, indeed, I have no cause, but then I accidentally fall on your girlfriend again and again and again until pregnant. I am potent Like chanting sperm with helmets. I am organized Like a Donald Trump garden salad I have surpassed Euro trash and landed on square one only to find Marlon Brando painting his toe nails by a brown holed sun. Delirium tremens are not only welcome, but purchased with a free colonic, and ear muffs.  Exquisitely intelligent with a fine wardrobe and all the free mindfucking one could ever hope to spin for in front of an audience and talk show host with gallivanting breast cream. I have found some kind of GOD. I have humped sweet Martin's dream. With two hand-fulls of afro Chuck Sheen. I have found a road littered with thee expected. Here, we have friends that move right in. Here we have alterations by the dump truck. I have found some kind of grind, some kind of empty. A love so fake you can have it back. A love so pressed as to slide under doors, All the 'what ifs' complete with no mores. And you will in Spades. With clouds of death and diamonds, you will see what Chicken Little could never, you will have the truth and it will surely have you. Broken and burped bent over knee, and completely Ivory towers.