Handsome and strapping, the cavalier gunman strolled down the parkways and the highways, and the bi ways of greater Kalamazoo. With only a marijuana pipe and a .22 fusion revolver at his side, our hero waded through the midst of the black hordes, not sure weather he was coming or going. There were too many. It was too tough. How could any one man survive a torrent of rage and wrath that seemed to come from the deepest depths of the darkest Hell. Buddies had fallen by the wayside. There were no friends amongst the sea of despair and hope; only compatriots, and the trusty steel of a knife blade cutting at the great Beast of Avalon's throat.
 Where was I when all this took place? Where was the great leader of the generation positioned at the time of great turmoil? Ha! I relaxed on my couch and ate Coco Puffs and Cheese Tards. I watched TV. I strummed the guitar. I played with myself routinely and with an animalistic further. I cooked but didn't clean. I garnered the favor of politicians and curried Indian food. I peppered smoked beef. I salted fish. I clung to the rails of sanity by only a thread and then when the time was right, I asked for The Holy One Blessed Be He to rain down upon my enemies the Furious Wrath of Heaven.
 Too many, too much. Only a heathen would give way to such sorrow in times of rigormortous such as I have experienced. Was my life to be stolen away by the crisp after taste of a fruity Sunkist? My life stood only a chance by preserving what was left of my brain using memories and mammoth mountains of massive morals and morelles.