"Bye, Brad!" I called. "Thanks for the ride!

"Bye, Brad!" I called. "Thanks for the ride! I owe ya one!" Brad smiled & tilted his chin. "No problem. Quiche you later."

I had to grit my teeth to stop from hitting him. I hated it when Brad said things like that -- things like "Lettuce go together." Once of these days, I'd make him pay by

looking at him with a real nasty glare for a long time. The only problem is Brad is huge. So I have to be careful not to actually, directly challenge but still feel the wrath

Brad pounded his car-sized fists together. "Pathetic little baby man." he said. That got me mad. "This is for college, you bastard!" I yelled out as i whipped out my secret weapon:

my 506c filings setting up my crowd funding instrument to cover college and grad school with the option to extend it to cover my doctorates. That shut Brad up quite effectively.

Brad had a Fellowship at Oxford and bragged about getting drunk every weekend. He still got his masters in Literarary Criticism, but it took longer. When he was hungover, he stayed

executions left and right. The other rastafarians wondered what business it was for an alcoholic literary academic to be judging the wait staff. Why were they all on death row?

What the Rastafarians and the alcoholic literary academic weren't remembering (for obvious reasons) is that they had been convicted of murder. But they had actually been framed by

their own social deviance.. It was really a delicious irony all along.