The man rolled over the table, smashing a

The man rolled over the table, smashing a few collector's items on the way as bullets fired from him to me. Luckily I had a plan. Before this even started, I had made sure to

. What happened next burned itself into my retina display: hundreds of turd droppings from fierce Least Weasels and blackened peels rained down as Master Rancid fired his Rotten

Bone Cannon (Don't ask) into the fray. He wasn't really one for modesty at the best of times, but right now he was just letting everything loose, crushing the souls of every

body builder on Muscle Beach until they became a diamond dust of pulverized dreams, which he then mixed with protein powder and swallowed in one gulp. But the women didn't like

thick, musclebound cabana boys unless they had a master’s degree in Jack of All Trades: Fence builder, carpenter, plumber, gardener, master chef, chauffeur, masseur, and lover.

I suppose we were friends for a while because our taste in guys did not overlap. I was more into average guys who were self-supporting. I realized my "friend" was such a user when

I caught her having a threesome with two men made of cocaine. Then I realised her lampshades were made of cocaine. And the bed. I ran down the powdery stairs and out the powdery h-

ouse, grabbing several bricks from its cocaine exterior. I could never trust anyone again! Selling the coke, I bought 41 pounds of gold, a bunker, guns and hamburger helper to last

forever. If you're reading this manifesto, you have most likely killed me for my gold. Congratulations. If that's not true, my condolences -- I'm standing behind you with a gun.