As a young sailor of little means, I dove

As a young sailor of little means, I dove with a full tank to visit the Octopus' Used Sub lot. He had just the thing, a sweet yellow number driven by a little old lady from Jamaica

. Upon looking over the sub, a hagglefish jetted towards me. "Ah, great choice! Can't go wrong with this one! Bow and stern hydroplanes, top o' the line high pressure air and

But the luxury machine wasn't interested in the billionaire, and that made him sad. He longed for the companionship of this wonderful machine with its beautiful cup holders, but

the luxury machine was a fickle thing.

It didn't run on quarters or tokens. It couldn't be slapped or kicked before sputtering to life. The abusive curses it would forever endure because it needed one thing to operate.

Only one thing, and it would work. And that thing? Oh, that thing was a precious thing, a rare commodity. To operate, it would need a hair from the head of the Queen's dog.

I scooted down the road in my "mobile home", what my friend Sam called "a wheeltoilet", in search of the Queen's dog's right lower back thigh hair. My second quest would be even

Worse than the first because of the odours from the kitchen sink, where a servant cooked.

Tuna was eaten, letucce was eaten. There is nothing left to eat. I will hunt my meals on the trash fro this day on.