You think I'm sick? Well, the only disease I've got is modern life: a schnutbusting gauntlet of inefficiency and misery that's one long parade of letdowns, put-downs, trickle downs, shutouts, freeze-outs, sellouts, numnuts, nincompoops and nimrods, all making every day as much fun as waxing a flaming Pontiac with your tongue, where even if you do luck into the possibility of some fleeting pleasure, like say if some nymphomaniac telephone operators, with the muscle control of Rumanian mat-slappers, agree to a little strip air hockey, it'll be over before it starts, 'cause some vowel-lacking, feta-reeking, cab-jockey slams his Checker up your hatchback and the cab is owned by some pinata spanker from a Santeria cult in Xoacalpa who starts shaking chicken bones at you and gives you a boil on your neck so big all it needs is Michael Jordan's autograph to make it complete.
And even with all this-- with all this!-- I still drag my sorry butt off the Sealy every morning and stick my face in the reaping machine for one more day, knowing when it's time to flash the cosmic card key at those Pearly Gates, I won't be in the coffin anyway 'cause some underhanded undertaker sold my heart, pancreas and other assorted Good 'N' Plenty to that same Santeria cult! So, does anybody really wonder why anybody is hanging onto sanity by the atoms on the tips of their fingernails while life dirty-dances on their digits, and is it really any wonder that I seem deranged?! But (chuckles) that's probably nothing you haven't heard a hundred times before.