On Strike

I'm a sad, ridiculously neurotic excuse for an adult. I aspire to HST, who would never pull this shit, but I might reach the pinnacle of Sean Ryder, who held the second Happy Mondays album hostage til someone gave him 50 pounds.

Point is, I require encouragement on a daily basis. More to the point, if I don't see a new comment once I post something, I obsess over what's wrong with it until I eventually slump over wherever I am, in a completely depleted state. Which is bad, if you're driving a train.

Luckily, I'm not...but if you want to read another installment of the e'd up mafia guy, post me a comment. If you're Wayne or Josh or Todd or Robert, well, you get one further installment. If you're a complete stranger, you get either one big long one or two regular ones, either of which will get us to the nut of the story, which is why I'm being treated like a visiting dignitary in the first place.

So there.

Oh, and if instead of a comment, you can send me a pair of naked breasts supporting a couple of big lines of powdered MDMA, I'll tell you the secret of how Bill got his drugs.