This is vanilla you sick sonofabitch. Ted

This is vanilla you sick sonofabitch. Ted was right of course. But I needed "The Max." His middle-class brain could never fathom that, so I switched over to

a language he would understand: Sarcasm. "Wow, you bought nachos but no salsa? Maybe we can have some mashed potatoes without gravy later. Or winter without snow. Or

a pool with no water. How silly can you get." he asked stupidly. What a load of crock the day was.

Wut? A real cracker-jack, I said. A real cracker-jack pool. Besides the lack of water, naturally. Nice otherwise. But, no, it really was a crock. A real cracker-jack crock.

A real cracker-jack crock of shit. Besides the shit smell, naturally. But no, a real crocker-shit. Anyway, you were saying?" He realized that during his explanation his friend had

dozed off. His friend had never shared his fascination with fecal matter and it was really wearing on him. He needed people in his life that shared his passion and reason for livin

Even if it was a really crappy hobby. But friends were hard to come by these days. It was hard enough to find someone who would help kick down a man's door and take all he owned.

No one loves the repo man, especially when he's volunteering. He wondered what drove him to do it, and if he could ever stop. Then, one day, the seventh name on the day's list

for the easiest access to it. He felt a chill on the back of his neck and turned. Death, clad in a paisley cloak towered over him, grasping a pink hedge-trimmer. "Bye cruel world."