Botero is closer to my ideal than Modigliani.

Botero is closer to my ideal than Modigliani. Rubens knew what beauty was. I was born in the wrong era. Big Bob took a break in the museum coffeeshop. Yolanda saw him coming

her glance and stared into her soul, his blue eyes piercing through her thoughts. Then, without a second thought, she pulled the revolver from her purse and shot Big Bob right in

the big hideous knob on his forehead...that massive, protruding, leather-like, pus-filled nodule that had been on his forehead for months, and I was glad...I hated Bob's knob, and

I was obsessed with the knob on Bob's head, and wanted it wiped off the face of the Earth. I knew that if I tried antibiotics and cryotherapy it would take forever, so I decided to

dig my own bejeweled acrylic nails into Bob's head & remove the knob myself. "Hold still!" I hissed, as I clenched Bob's head between my knees like a vice. To his credit, Bob

behaved himself & did not take inappropriate advantage of his position. Bob's self reserve was augmented by the copious blood flowing from his scalp, & that I learned surgery from

Master Jack is riskier than I had thought. Master Jack should have stuck with folding stories, which he mastered at a young age. We fold stories even fifty years later. The line

that Master Jack wrote was so scathingly brilliant that it blazed upon the screen. Those who happened to have read it before it flickered and then disappeared into oblivion, were

wolves devoured them in oblivion. Master Jack the master of sending people to other dimensions whom are doomed for eternity. Yea that master Jack.