Some people call me a space cowboy, some

Some people call me a space cowboy, some call me a dad or a bastard. Some people call me boss, some yell and say 'Hey ref!' I'm a worker, I'm a shirker, I'm a French fry berserker,

but I'm not French. I called my boss on her honeymoon. "Why do you call me a space cowboy?" "I'm busy right now, can't this wait till I'm back in the office?" No, it couldn't wait

"You're immature, gripe about your personal space & yell yee-haw a lot. We also call you a gangster of love." CLICK! I called a friend at 3 AM to ask what "gangster of love" meant.

My friend rattled off enough salacious saucy obscene details that I just hung up on my friend while he was in the middle of his rant. You know, at 3 AM the toilet still runs.

Which is a good thing. I flushed a few more times after voiding myself, but I couldn't forget what he'd said. About 5 AM I decided I was going to have a rant of my own and headed

back to my captor and told him how it was going to be from now on. At first he kept saying something like, "I am the captain now" but English wasn't his first language so I'm not s

Ure he was telling the truth. George Ure the urban survivalist would be able to tell me almost 3-1/2 years after the massacre whether or not my captor was a raptor or rapper.

Mr. Ure informed me that actually, my captor had been a wrapper, and the ribbons used to tie my hands had been stolen from the gift wrap department at Macy's. He then disappeared

he’d succeeded!” “THAT led you to him? How?!?” Ure realized he’d erred. “Sorry,” he said, reaching beneath the desk again, this time pulling up a bloodhound. “THIS led us to him!"