Ever find a bug carcass on your money? Unfold a twenty and a little rascal smushed and apparently mummified on it. Some with karmic minded taints might claim that's where I'll end up after a history of smashing open many flying pests that annoyed me enough. Do I actually have to give my opinions on past and future lives? Fill in the cranky cynical blanks yourself.

Ever wonder where your bills been? If you've frequented as many titty bars as I have, well, a good chance some bootylicious residue is on your cash. After gripping a five spot with her logcutter, Candy Apples purchases a Slim Fast at her local 7-11 on the way home. The bung kissed fiver makes it's way into Chester the counter boy's pocket, as part of his "tips". The bill is tossed into a collective stash pile, and handed off to the gangia delivery man. You get back ten dollars change, two fives to be exact, from the fiddy dollar bag you just procured from the gangia delivery man. Licking your fingers as you count out the leftover duckets in your wallet. Grazing the imperceptible pucker mark. That should be a Sesame Street style short film on the life of bill.

I remember reading a report. Possible fringe network propagandistic claptrap. I'll relay it as fact anyway. The report stated that at least twenty percent of the nation's paper money has traces of cocaine on them. What with all the makeshift nose funnels rolled by coke fiends in the populace. I blame Crackdonalds for discontinuing their golden arches coke shovels, or as others might have called them, coffee stirrers.

Jajo is a drug I could never dig on. I don't find the joy in it. First of all most of it is processed with petroleum or other potent solvent type deals. Never really can tell what sideshow chemicals are joining your nose candy party. Plus, I accept my asshole side with open arms. I also have developed boundaries in which I unleash my asshole side. When coke is introduced the asshole high water mark is erased. I don't find it amusing. I enjoy being amused. Fuck coke.

Speaking of fucking coke. I don't drink pop. Had to give up caffeine after my ears bled, and my doc discovered I have intolerances to the stimulant. Hooray. So I gave up pop altogether, not wanting to fume over a Sprite when I really wanted a Dr. Pepper. Not that I am a health nut, jimminy christ thats an understatement, but pop is just plain yucky for ya. Just sugar water with other addictive intestinal eroding chemicals. And that diet crap, you might as well randomly sample beakers of fluid at Monsanto test labs. My skin cleared up and my teeth got all shiny and white. No more belly aches. Giving up the pop was a cool direction, ya you betcha.

Like an insomniac needs caffeine anyway. Good thing I gave up crank as well when I was a kid. Speeding down I-40 in a borrowed IROC-Z, Slayer wailing away on the cd player, weaving in and out of sleepyhead wee hour traffic, absolutely positively a mere flinch away from becoming pilon food. Remember tossing the keys back to my homie, sweating profusely, diabolical smile on my face. "Thanks man." "You know it dirty." All because I saw Hell Awaits sitting next to the stereo at a party, tweaking my short and curlies off, brilliant idea to race down the highway headbangin, and my pal with the car thought so too.

Ah yes I should mentor the next generation, I'm obviously a stellar role model. Funny enough I think kids need to hear from deviants like me. Lock your children up, my ideas are coming. *Cackles maniacally*