"C'mon Rook" I said to the newest recruit.

"C'mon Rook" I said to the newest recruit. He looked shellshocked and pale but followed me into the darkened warehouse. An overhead light swung ominously back and forth. I felt

through my felt hat and lodged in my skull. I felt the blood oozing out of the hole & plugged it with my finger. It looked like I was doing a party trick with the hat. I felt silly

what with blood pouring out of my head and all. This was a pretty good excuse to miss Ayala's Bat Mitzvah. Growing up primarily with Jewish kids, this would be about the millionth

-- what, I wondered.

What had I done to the barber to deserve this mullet-gone-wrong of a haircut? Had he taken my criticisms of "Sweeney Todd" the wrong way? When I asked about his refund policy, he

just laughed in my face. "Refund? Like hell! Beat it." I scowled, wondering how to fix this. Perhaps if I just shaved my head, surely that would look better than this mess. But

I decided if I tatooed my eyebrows, why not my hair? I went to a hole in the wall called "The Inky-Dink-a Doo." and demanded a nice coif. Little did I know written on the back,

in letters as uniform as cuneiform, in a slew of colours as gay as Pittsburg was inked: Get your Tattoos at The Inky-Dink-a Doo. I was a walking billboard, but I didn't find out

everything I was advertising till later that night when I took off my sandwich board and saw the almost subliminal advertisement for a particularly disgusting sexual act.