Is the treasure at both ends of the rainbow? How do they know? When I let Jamaica out the front door she hunts for "treasure." To me it's just cat poop. Hardly seems crazier than self-important, young attorneys whoring themselves for green paper so that they can park their Audis in unmarked spaces at the country club where they can parade for each other in jackass slacks and ride around "nature" in their little electric buggies. To me? That's right; cat poop.
Oh, I don't mean to pick on attorneys. Wait- yes I do. Nobody has more insulting, degrading lawyer jokes than my lawyer.
It's really humans that I have a problem with.*
One man's cat poop is another man's treasure. Me? I go for eggplant parmesan, Little Richard, '32 Fords, robin's egg blue, crushed velvet and pretty girls. Just so you'll know that I'm not shallow, all girls are pretty. Well, maybe not Ann Coulter. All except Ann Coulter.
Let the content of today's little lesson serve to show you that my discovery that I'm a god, that we're all gods, has not gone to my head. I was already aware that we're all bozos.
Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.
*I know, I know. I've ended another sentence with a preposition. It is my understanding that in this age of texting the rules of grammar have been relaxed, possibly overthrown. I shall attempt to end more sentences with propositions. Socially awkward am I?
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