I don't go to the casino to gamble, I go

I don't go to the casino to gamble, I go to drink. In peace. Nowhere else in this fuckhole of a city can you get peace at 3.30am. I drink. And I think. Some of my best thoughts

are about leaving this fucking city and everyone in it, Carl included. I don't even care if the baby is his or if drinking at 3am in a casino is bad for me, the only thing

that matters is this warm beer and my pride. So Jim left Carl and became a chimney sweep in Toronto. But little Carl, he started making burgers, he open a shop and called it

Delux Ultra Burger World Planet 2. Business was great at first, but little Carl flew into a rage whenever people tried to abbreviate the name. Jim the chimneysweep, meanwhile

ashed the fries. Jim seemed to be covered in soot at all times. Chimney-sweeping wasn't the healthiest profession. "But at least I don't work here," he told little Carl.

Little Carl was only 5 years old, and Jim was like a father to him. He looked up to Jim for advice. Little Carl dreamed of being a chimney sweeper like Jim. As Carl ate his fries,

Jim regarded him thoughtfully. "You know, Carl, there are other things you could be beside a chimney sweeper. How about an accountant or a doctor?" Jim tousled Carl's hair roughly.

His toupee came off and grew golden wings. The toupee then flew out the window and headed south with a whoosh. Carl was bald! His Gene Simmons wig arrived and walked towards him.

Carl recoiled in fear. The Gene Simmons wig with detachable man bun would swallow him whole. It lifted off the dressing table and hovered ominously like a dark storm cloud.