Instead of living in a van, I think I want to live in a limo. Fatty wide body stretch jobby. Replete with compartmentalised miniature plumbing and otherwise utility services. Laying square on the "couch" over the driver side wheel bucket, push a button, and spin around into the self-contained horizontal shower unit. Drains out into the city pavement. Raised ceiling of the trunk handily crafted into my mobile closet.

Truly I am concerned about the driver part of the whole limohome concept. He or she will just require some medical tubing attached to their netherly ports.

Also, delivery trucks, like the newspaper and produce delivery variety. Top mounted missle launchers and meat grinders riveted to the roof. Full on tacticle command center in the cab. Decimating billboards. Popping balloons. And, shooting trapped kittens out of tree branches. Not like you think sicko. No, just carving out a clear path so the mewing bugger can successfully climb down. Give your great cat hunter fantasies a lunch break there Captain Von Big Game Prickenhoffer.

There is a foam store on the corner of Houston and Allen. Palatial selection of foam possibilities. Could you imagine actually being blessed to be granted an exclusive gold leafed ticket into the foam store? Woof. I can't.

Anyone else think the open double-decker tourist tour buses resemble a bit larger version of an African safari van? All the visitors stowed safely eleven feet in the air, sheltering distance away from all the prowling animals sniffing about below. I think we natives ought to start throwing our feces at them. Excitable jumping up and down, scratching our pits and thumping our chests, hollering like a bonobo with it's genitals stuck in a typewriter.

Speaking of turds. Why haven't they put additives in pet food that makes their poop glow in the dark? Forget about the enormous family fun factor involved with iridescent bung logs. Locate and avoid strolling missions would be infinitely easier to complete with phospher laced squeezins.

The new wave spanky life soundtrack madness has not stopped. Literally. "Our House" will not leave the skull. I think possibly the lizard has taken the cranial stereophonic controls hostage. He wants to force fantacise all the shorties that wouldn't give me play during the burgeoning MTV era. They will feel hot spanky wax in my ether at least.

I must ask again, do vegans swallow? I mean, spitting kills all the microscopic fish just as effectively, and more harshly I might add. Drying out in the cruel mean sunlight. Flagellum futlilely flapping about trying to swim towards the nonexistent warm hearth of a welcoming egg. Stomach acid would humanely snuff out their brief existence. Either way, I have absolutely no desires here to convince veggie honies from quitting polishing. We have to think sensibly here people. One of the more reliable patterns is that "spiritual" neo buddha eco friendly chicks are eagerly ready to hum on some balls. Let's please not fuck with that thank you.