Dedicated to my good friend (and your favorite stripper), KITTEN CABOODLE. 



Burning question of the day:, 



We are never so close to our troubles than when a change is coming.



Growth happens, even at the expense of its own pain.



The thing about living on the edge, is that the edge is always closer than you think.



There is no greater burden more resented by our friends, than to be asked to hold a secret.



The problem wasn't that he fell a full story before breaking his leg, but that he hadn't finished reading the story before he fell. So he is suing the writer for negligence. Then he developed a terrible farting problem as a result, and decided to sue for gross negligence.



If you see it in your mind, it is real. Only your doubt calls it imagination.



Especially for men; too much time spent explaining the emotions, weakens them. Explain too much and you begin to lose it, if you haven't already. And if it cannot be easily explained, then we are not ready to explain it yet. Much of life must first be digested. This is why men idolize the 'archetypal' CLINT EASTWOOD. His actions explain his existence, and that way, words are less obstacle to understanding.



Often, it seems that governments exist to keep people from evolving beyond them.



One of the real highlights of a recent trip I took with my wife and son to CORSICA, was in fact a radio station, medium wave, that played some of the best HILLBILLY music we've heard in years. The first hour were almost entirely an exposition on the work and branches inspired by the great BILL MONROE, but interwoven with some FLATT AND SCRUGGS (and this and that), even some ELVIS and other music inspired by Monroe. Like radio back in the day, the deejay explained what was happening and why the music were important. And there were no commercials to break the spell, maybe that is why it were on medium wave. The white side of my American bloodlines are primarily redneck and hillbilly, and this music is magical and earthy, spiritually funky music. And frank. I were moved to discover in Corsica that our hillbilly zeitgeist, is alive and well and kicking up dust in other parts of the world where civilization refuses to be restrained for the expedience of a few dollars more. These dudes rocked, even without drums! And left much to be grateful for in their penumbral wake.



THIS JUST IN- Men like porn! Does it matter what his job is?



Is the world going mad? I noticed in a supermarket in Switzerland, an illustrated hard cover comic book of THE MOSSAD, the ISRAELI INTELLIGENCE SERVICE. The book were displayed prominently, next to children's books such as Donald Duck, Winnie the Pooh, Tin Tin, Bugs Bunny, Mickey Mouse and what else you might expect to see in a section of books for very young minds, still getting their alphabet together. Huh?



I am often asked, who my favorite philosopher is. ISOSCELES, (look him up), because he kept it simple, he kept it to a TRIANGLE. Which he also plays in the orchestra.



Poor master Gaddafi. As someone who can be said to be sensitive to names and billing, we knew his karma were screwed because he had TOO MANY different ways of spelling his name. GADDAFI, KHADDAFI, QADDAFI, that is too many NAMES! You DO NOT let other countries choose for themselves how to spell your name. You send out a press release, get everyone on the same page, THEN, you can get down to some serious 'dictating'. No wonder the man were confused by the end of it. And don't just take ideas from Michael Jackson's wardrobe, mix it up a little. So, future dictatorial aspirants, CHOOSE A NAME which can be spelled the same worldwide, UNIFORMITY OF BRAND is the main thing! And never let them play games with your BRAND! This has been a public service announcement.



As for me, I prefer to be called SANANDA, except in those moments when my wife calls me, BIG PAPI.



What luck. I finally manage to get my parade together, then got a citation for going the wrong way down a one way street!



We know that when the LIONS are unsure, the whole of the jungle suffers. A Lion, having come down with laryngitis, and fearing the disposition of his duties, taught a parrot how to roar convincingly. Problem was, when the lion had healed, the parrot wouldn't shut up. And having heard it clearly, some hunters shot the parrot thinking it were a lion. Then upon discovering it were a parrot, sued the game reserve for false advertising (with a separate civil suit for having 'over stated the obvious')! 
But certainly not before other big cats had caught on to the idea of using parrots as stand-ins for themselves. Even the elephants got into the act, before one mischievous parrot got stomped by a jazz scat singing elephant for breaching its copyright and billing itself as 'Elephants Gerald'. The moral of the story? 
Even AESOP stopped talking to parrots at some point. He stopped trusting them, and as a result, he didn't even like going to Paris in the spring. And Doctor Doolittle once lost a cherished lady companion, when a foul mouthed parrot imitated the doctor's voice making rude bodily function noises, while the lady powdered her nose in the afterglow of a first encounter. And the 'aliens' use parrots as spies, their eyes and ears.



ZOOATHALON TALES part 2: A taxi driver, fearing times were tough enough, refused to give a ride to a taxidermist, who he thought were too close linguistically to his own profession for him to feel secure enough about, in giving him a ride. To improve himself, the taxi driver hit upon the idea of proposing to, and marrying, a skin specialist, then printing up business cards naming them both, 'TAXI-DERMATOLOGISTS'! Assured now, he then began accepting passengers who were known taxidermists, among other privileged professions. After all, what did they have that he didn't? Besides a lot of dead, stuffed animals, staring off into distant space? And many of his passengers would comment favorably on his healthy, well managed skin. Which he loved!



ZOOATHALON Tales PART 3- So then, the WOLF complained to his doctor, “Yeah, but no one ever talks about the SHEEP who come dressed in OUR clothing, those cross dressing sons of bitches!”



The world is round because, once, when it were square and cubed, ATLAS fell asleep getting a foot massage, and only by following the eagles did he manage to track it down and take it back from the thieves who'd stolen it. He then determined to make the world round so that if he fell asleep again, he would be able to follow it when it rolled downhill and crashed into things, which is why he always took his foot massages at the top of mountains. What he shaved off to make round, became Babylon, something he has regretted since, though in reality, there were no other place to put it. The seas were full of mermaids and the volcanoes full of lava. And ATLAS considered himself more a 'lava' than a fighter.



Indeed, we are ALL CONNECTED. But if you are connected to my credit card, I will disown you.



Often, what we call 'mistakes', are pre-judged miracles.



CLOUDS ARE HOLOGRAPHIC entities, the lithographs of our imagination.



Nothing can hide from us if we really want to see it. Our blinders are not permanent, but optional and removed at any time.



Inspiration, is evolution speaking in tongues. 
And what is most important is never what we have to chase, but what we already have. 



Nothing follows leaps of faith, like lots of regulations.



Your brother is so out of it, he thought YAHOO was a social network for hillbillies and farmers.



The best time to give up ANY vice, is when it shortens your attention to it.



The ignorance that is the enemy of compassion can be defined as; “too LITTLE regard for one's NEEDS, and too HIGH a regard for one's Opinion”.






And although his tribe were mainly nudists, the chief of the tribe had a big day and were due to be at the wedding of another tribal chief's daughter, in a neighboring village a few miles away. As it happened, the chief's one good pair of pants were in the cleaners, and as they were a tropical tribe, there were no need for more than one good pair, if that. 
Due to the wedding as a holiday, the local cleaners were closed and its owner gone fishing. Trousers were requested worn by the Chief whose daughter were marrying, as the wedding party didn't want any male members stiffening during the part of the ceremony where the attended were asked to speak up now or forever hold their peace. It could prove embarrassing to the groom, so trousers were of utmost importance to the proceedings. Around the village went an aide to the chief, looking to borrow a pair of trousers for the day. Being a nudist tribe however, meant that it would have been easier borrowing a thong. Again, hut to hut went the aide until finally he had the idea of convening a village meeting in the local square. After the people had all gathered, and their attention won, the aide took a long look at the crowd and cleared his throat, before singing in his best imitation 'John Lennon type' voice, accompanied by his lone guitar; “Listen, All We Are Saying is: TO GIVE CHIEF SOME PANTS!”



The poet's greatest advisor is the howling wind.



The best time to develop a conscience is AFTER you've taken them for everything you can steal.



If the best things in life are free, then the law of compensation dictates that crap is really expensive.



MANTRA for Today's Mouse: (also a Moose mantra) 
AND THE SYMBOLS OF DECLINE, shall not be mine! 



His other raccoon buddy spoke to him intently. “Listen, you are a raconteur, a story telling raccoon, don't let that HYENA get to you.” But Rory Raccoon, indeed a fine raconteur, couldn't STAND the idea that he were being laughed at. It was deeper than him. In his opinion, it bothered a raccoon's rack and pinion, so he steered clear. An otherwise balanced raccoon, who washed his carrots before eating like all the others in his clan, he had a quick twitch mechanism on his shoulder and emotions to match. What did it matter to him, the 'reputation' of some fool, hyena though the fool be? 
He only knew that his father, Cory Raccoon, had told him to never let another creature mock him unabated, as mocking is an echo which bounces off the walls of contempt. It builds mistrust. And it builds dams. The young Rory had smacked a beaver once when the beaver had suggested that Rory and his father Cory, both looked like they were always trying to find a Halloween party, or a bank to rob. He slapped the beaver so hard, it were actually heard to cry out in a whelp; DAMN (and thus confused, the beaver commenced in building one)! So the fact of the sniggering Hyena, cooling his tongue beneath the shade of a tall bush near, while Rory and his raccoon buddy were using the zebra crossing's express lane in the burning sun, sat not at all too well with Rory Raccoon. His uncle MORY, long deceased, would have also felt nervous about what was to happen next. So would his sister, Lori, a truck driver. 
Affecting what little ROBERT DENIRO Rory could recall from film appreciation classes at the local community college, the laughing hyena were approached and asked if he had a problem which Rory himself might help him solve. Spoke the raccoon, 'Listen pal, I don't know what you find so funny, but you giggle like a girl.' The hyena found this insult funny and so began laughing even louder. This compelled the raccoon to insult him again. He told the hyena that he was so stupid, he would go bowling with melons. Assuming this to be some sort of abstract raccoon humor, the hyena then fell to his side, in stitches and laughing even harder and with more bellicose force. Said the raccoon, 'Your sister is so fat, Google Maps took out a restraining order on her.' The hyena was now swimming in the ecstasy of his laughter, guffawing and gurgling in it like a pickle in a jar. The raccoon could take no more. 'DUDE, WHY IS EVERY THING SO FREAKIN' FUNNY?' Composing himself, the HYENA replied, “Listen bandit, Why must you be so vain? Why is it always about you? My tribe came about its current state the hard way. We started out once upon a time as the CRYING HYENAS, we took a look at ourselves in the reflection of the lake, and were aghast at what we saw, what we saw was sad, so we began to cry. 
Who would love creatures as ugly and ill formed as us? Then we began to evolve, and became the HOLLERING HYENAS. We thought it better to get in touch with our pain, and scream. We lamented and yelled. We did notice however that we were getting stuck in our process, since we were eating less and losing weight. We were scaring all of the prey away by raising our voices so often, and making it easier for the hunters to find us. We also passed through a phase where we were the COUGHING HYENAS, but we began having too many health issues and a lot of us died off from all the hacking and spitting. And again, we were pretty loud. 
One day, our prayers were answered. A wandering man, coming through our fields on a trek, suggested to us that we might be better served, if we lowered our voices and laughed a little. He said that there were a sect of monks in India, who meditated by laughing. We thought this a good idea, and so in time became the now famous LAUGHING HYENAS™.
Of course, a few splintered off and became the more infamous narrow sect, the HEADBANGING HYENAS, but they get concussions a lot and retire early.” Asked the other raccoon, Rory's buddy, 'So they get concussions because they head butt their prey?' The laughing hyena replied, “No, they get concussions because they listen to their music too loud”. Wow!, thought Rory Raccoon, who as a raconteur, story teller, griot, could appreciate such a cool story. One which he himself could recount and place in his repertoire of tales told and fabulous fables animated. Ok, so he had reacted vainly to what he didn't understand and knew it. The other raccoon agreed. The hyena then said to them both, “ And funny thing is, when we started laughing, we noticed how much easier it was to get on TV. If you haven't noticed, we are regularly featured in documentaries. The Nature Channel? We OWN it!” 
Rory, no longer beset with dissension, but calmed, asked the hyena if hyenas ever stopped laughing. The hyena; “HONEY, ALL HYENAS GO 'HA HA HA' UNLESS HYENAS' ON HIATUS”.



The only way for evil to triumph in the world is for us to be kept ignorant of what it is.



The place with the greatest collection of stories to be found is NOT the library, but the cemetery. The graveyard: Great stories worth a lifetime, all collected there.



Headline we'd like to see; 
Like EUPHEMISMS go toe to toe with FRAZIER, for free. 
Now step back over the line, or I may HAVE TO TASE 'YA
while I show you what the YOUTH IS LIKE IN ASIA. 
And why they want mo' and mo', Beaming!, like American teens
and the young girls in knitted woolens who swing from branches 
in Malaysia in jeans, (as tightly painted as the chapel of Sistine's) 
which makes their butts hang low. How creamy! 
And the boys fall like leaves, dreaming. DALI left his 
darker screams behind the canvas, coarse, Hispanic. 
When poets panic they see remorse and words instead of meaning. 



The lawyers speaking before the CLONING RECLAMATION COMMITTEE, were set to introduce the idea that the extinction of the WOOLY MAMMOTHS, were the result of a conspiracy by a group of merchants who controlled the SILK WORMS, and their market. The few survivors realized that the real money were in their tusks.



Reality stretching to include your vision is what we call a dream.



There are times when 'political correctness' is an enemy to reason. And a smokescreen.



The main disease of wealth, is lusting after what we already have.



It is not what we eat that troubles us, it is what we digest.



Every day, is DONNY HATHAWAY. Look him up, he's the full business.



Looking outside yourself for your answers is always taking the long way home. And home isn't always where you left it, when you return.



I don't need a gun, I THROW my bullets. It always shocks the hell out of those I hit. Throwing them also makes them more recyclable, which keeps the environment happy. Try it. Don't shoot them, throw them!



And when will we get the great film that the legend of Hank Williams deserves? There are angels in heaven who would give both wings to able to write songs like the great master HANK.



HABSBURG JENKINS and the SMOKELESS PIPERS announce cancellation of their upcoming tour until such a time as they can work out a settlement with a company which had already registered their name on the internet. A spokesman said that the record label would pay the 100,000 dollar request, but only if advanced ticket sales for an upcoming tour warranted such an investment. HABSBURGS, WILL TRAVEL! This is the same fate that befell label mates, HIPPY HIPPY SHAKESPEARE, a jazz trio, who released their name before releasing their music and never got their name back from a domain company. They've been in litigation since…….



ELVIS was a visionary for shooting his television. Turns out he was right. Target practice may in fact be the best future use of it. But throw your bullets. There is no real need for indoor gun play!



R.I.P. Master CLARENCE CLEMONS, The 'Big Man'. Blow a few notes into the wind!



All roads lead to ROME, save those that lead to TEXAS or more taxes.



When Einstein gave up trying to figure out women, he realized that he were being prepared to better understand the deep mysteries of time and space.



There are few more dangerous than those who, because THEY HAVE A PLAN, think that they know what they are doing.



YOU NEVER MAKE PEACE WITH YOUR ENEMIES, you make peace with those left, after they see you beat your enemies to a pulp.



The SURREALISTS' CONVENTION were at least able to agree that SHIATSU massage was more than a sneeze but less than a small Chinese dog, and suggested using it as a currency. They also agreed that it were 33 melons short of an alibi, and higher than a floating rug. They agreed that their new flag would be Bermuda shorts. And that the next convention would be held in AZERBAIJAN. They also signed an official petition to get JESUS proper recognition for having invented the FISH SANDWICH. The Surrealists' also tabled a discussion on chairs.



I am wearing my NIKE INTELLECTUAL AIR sneakers. I don't run faster or jump higher but my syntax has improved, and my dangling participles don't dangle as low as they used to. Exclusively at MAL-WART!



To put a man back together with his own mind is nature's greatest act of restitution.



We have no home if we have no heart.



Your sister is so fat, she got sued by GOOGLE MAPS for trespassing.



You cannot teach CLUTCH. You have it, or you do not. DEREK JETER is CAPTAIN CLUTCH. He should have his own cereal. Bravo to a great New York Yankee, and many more hits to come. Mutual benefit is one of the higher branches on the tree of life.



The essence of the BIBLE'S greatness is NOT in its DOGMA, but in GREAT WRITING. Though what it means, is what you make of it. Don't let too much dogma chase your karma.



you're cute too! 
And I will make love to you
of your face, falls upon my heart
I sneeze my IQ, 
To speak aloud 
before I think is to
run out of words, before 
I run OUT OF INK. 
(I think) 
So I effect a wink 
from the eye that looks at you. 
I think these thoughts, 



“The Gym? Man, I don't need to go to the gym, my mother in law works me out.”



“Sir, does your wife know where ANCHORAGE is?” 'Wait, I'll ask her.'



….'Alaska', get it? (You'll be deducted points for this, now shape up!)



Every CLOUDSHAPE is remembered by time, nor is any sunset past, 
that doesn't suggest of its host, that we are at most, either luckier than
Spring, or in the right place to be lost, willing to pay the costs
we boast. A broken heart becomes a lethal weapon, if it takes the 
shape of revenge and One lost Autumn does not a summer swallow, 
even if it hinge upon the birds of Capistrano, who toast, 
every new season with a roast, where pigeons and pirates
are taken in and given sandals to go dancing with. I think this poem soft. 
But 'tis exactly the more sillier rhymes that keep the fluff clouds in the sky aloft. 
And too, those scattered clouds do matter, they soak the brine from our chatter. 
And separates the pigs, and the men from the trough. 



Men never posture more than when speaking, unconvincingly, other men's words.



Dreams, cut into their smallest increments are SURVIVAL INSTINCTS.



We are all cyber stalkers now. 
This message brought to you by Alice's House of Paralysis. Whose office in the palace is.



The calculus is simple; Lead or be left behind. The law of the wolf is this; there is no neutral space.



Conundrums nourish. 
But then again , with my luck
I'd probably kill my dog Rover, 
while standing at my peak. 
He'd squeal, he'd feel, (he would
have to duck, and fast) the full 
weight of my thunder, as well 
as the guilt I've inherited from 
plunders past. There, in Tehran, 
during that evening when I ran, 
into IRAN (I was chased), when Persia it was
called, post haste, and I were but a lamb, meek. 
I stammered, though I never clamored 
to seek, for things that would disadvantage my claim, 
and I only staggered into the arms of a maiden, 
who's name I recalled because it rhymed 
with mine the same and whose aim 
was the most creative use of 
this conscious spark, in seeing ourselves 
in a different light. Skinned, I ignite. 
Despite the lucidity and dragon flames 
puncturing these lungs with fireflies and 
promises to keep. At times I weep. 
Young, appalled, I didn't wake it, 
but let it sleep, deep inside its 
amber world, which then hung loosely 
from a pouch in my loins, amended. 
Before my time were rolled into coins, 
after the mountains thinned into endless night, 
and Eden's dawn had ended, dogged 
by its troglodytes, whom Adam had 
befriended with his mind cast to 
the wind. 
I became ragged crags of lightning 
worth living in, if you lived 
your weight in stones. 
With spinsters, dregs and madness, 
I joined, flinging the flesh 
into a mesh of boulders, sharpened, 
pockmarked, and neatly pressed. 
Then I am finished with sadness while some 
other soldier harvests the bones 
that time has left, diminished. 
Undeterred, they smolder. 
I left bread crumbs in my deed, 
as the question is neither HAWKS 
nor DOVES, but whose time is it
to feed? BOTH MUST EAT, or the future's 
owned by the birds of prey only ghosts
condone, who follow them on the street. 
Who spread their slack
shadows across their wings, snuffing
out the heat, like packs of priests
in EUCHARIST black. The same
ones who anoint the feast. 
Who bless in the old tongue, 
but curse in dialect only 
anthropologists seek. 
To clarify for charity, they who feed the sickly 
and those among the least remembered, 
and who moan aloud for John Baptiste. 
When the world is slung
across my back, ZONED, her winds 
are at my feet while HELL, tempered, 
becomes my throne. Always a 
little too far from Heaven, always
too close to home. And while
spitting out volcanoes, never finding
the time to speak. No space to scratch
or blow my nose. If one domino should
arrest its fall, there all neighborhoods go. 
Nor time for paraphrases to couch inside prevailing
winds. My daily bread, the circling buzzards
befriend, and snatch, as I lay me down to sleep. 
Inside the badlands still left to patch, while there
is still time to make amends. 



the valleys of contingence. The seed of vanity
came bounding back, cackling with a vengeance. 
And crackling like a rip cord spooling from
an engine, cooling. At least 8 liters, more if you count
the bottom feeders. I spurt my semen on the 
Blue Danube, it makes a rushing sound. 
Life is cube, love is round, so like the world
rolls on, INFRARED, and out for a pound, 
as the tide washes new shells
of providence upon the shore, sparkling
with seduction. And seminal shapes of
lost and found, that gestate their brief
summer then, appear no more, 
vanquished by corruption, who, as
a virgin beyond her years, 
cries in abstract tears. And of her own volition, 
from what I hear, as she prepares for her collection. 
I bore of easy summers, whose slammers
shut an outburst's door, simmering 
out on the walkway. Begging for
more words to snore at. I sneeze
on the wallpaper of cheese's
and Chinese checker pieces! 
COME BACK PICASSO, the mourning
dales are folded into the shapes of grief. 
I spin inside your blocks, your collages
of crumpled thieves and clowns whose 
clutter give shelter to heaving rivers
making grappa of molding maple leaves, 
cocooning into butter. 
Their 8 ball never came around again, 
so they melt inside prenuptial sleeves. 
Their shivers arrested by ennui and by
waiters called Andre, upon whom we, 
bereft; conceal our pets and personal peeves, 
though confess our deeds, because 
he mixes a mean martini, dry. And he's the 
last true Baron left. And he uses olives
that our grove supplies. I once
dreamt that Picasso fell from the sky, 
befuddled and unfolding 
like a jigsaw puzzle;
unmuzzled. He said, “Don't worry
earthlings, I COME IN PIECES!, 
and if my paintings don't sell, 
then please, take my nieces, 
but leave Paloma to dwell
beneath the frescoes of Venice's
friezes, she does this well. 
When not working to break
the family spell. 
Were I, Pablo 
more beast, or thesis? 
They all got a cut, only 
I kept my creases.” 



A Spelling Bee were asked to leave the hive, as production had fallen and half of the bees now only wanted to sit around doing crosswords puzzles and buzzing each other to spell large and obscure words, such as TRITANOPIA, a rare genetic disorder that renders the eye incapable of seeing the color blue, or ZYGAPOPHYSIS, which is one of two usually paired processes of a vertebrate that articulate with corresponding vertebrates, adjacent to itself. The expelled bee, branded a troublemaker, knew that modern bees didn't just want to make honey, they wanted to make money to go with their honey, and the honey's that came with the money, maybe a few playboy bunnies. Money he made tons of, while focussing on TV productions ('Hive Got What You Need!'). This were not just any spelling bee, but a bee who'd studied Aaron Spelling.






No disease is a greater killer of black men than their AMBITION.






INTEREST IS POWER! For as long as interest in it is maintained, it sustains.



FOR THE RECORD; Humpty Dumpty WAS put back together again (for ONE engagement only!). By a committee, who being a committee, put his egg back together as a cube. A Rubik's Cube. Square, compacted and even more confused. Most of his work is now as a paperweight. He also does security work. He remains too sentimental to work on Easter.



Sometimes, the price of love is paranoia.



If you are not exactly sure about your breath, go down on her first.



AL KALINE was Alkaline. Dig? Hint- Detroit. 



When even the 'rational' begin to behave irrationally, it portends that too much cynicism has overtaken the body politic as it pertains to our systems. And that faith in the process has turned its leaves over to anger and a general disconnect born of shock and disbelief.



It were an emotional moon
that afternoon, that rose
from its teacups into the sky
like bloom, and set in motion
swells that ocean floor regurgitates, 
then clears its phlegm as foam. 
Tears etched in the open air, 
chiseled afterwards by stonemasons. 
Where would I store my guns, 
except for SIERRA LEONE? 
I looked for weapons in
NAVARONE, but their horses
and ammo were long gone
and I left my soldiers there, 
now getting rich on the skills
they honed, while gaining thrills, 
high in the northern hills, 
up there in their echelon, 
enjoying the time on their own. 



But you're not there, so, 
she turns ON you. 
With a thousand weight of
excess chills, tingling a
spinelessness that never
spawned you. It will dawn
on you soon enough, the
price of admission to your 
hall of dreams, 
though not before it stuns you. 
Then pawns your bishops,
castles your king, and turns
to horse meat your trembling 
queen, who bleeds in Latin, 
though she screams in Greek. 
She blinks before her baths. 
Mathematicians ask for 
pi which she slices while laughing, 
not sure whether they are starving
or whether her mind has gotten weak. 
Lovers always speak
the language of their time. 
And I am hungry enough to
eat these words, though rhymes
are fattening, and apostrophes; 
daggers whose archers
threaten birds in flight. 'Tis better to die 
choking on happiness rather than spite
(or verbs, for that matter, the ones that keep your mind
running late at night, searching for angry marchers). 



Sananda's Conundrum (He also plays the doldrums in his spare time): 
but it does always end when you say. 



He went jumping into the abyss, but the abyss kept throwing him back. Again and again, the abyss would throw him back as if to say, 'Uh Uhn, get off me, get out.' Then the clever boy went BUNGEE JUMPING into the abyss and was never seen again.



At some point, even life and 'truth' defer to the consistency of narrative.



And please don't forget to visit, the wonderful magical paradise of AZERBAIJAN!



Full copyright the intellectual property of SANANDA MAITREYA.



P.S. Your cousin is so obtuse, he thought that the FIBONACCI SPIRAL was a birth control device!