intro-

They can make it possible for a man to walk in space...
                                                         but they can't find him a place to park!
They can replace valves in his heart...
                                                         but can't cure his sniffles!
They can pour millions into Foreign Aid...
                                                          but can't wipe out poverty at home!!
They can determine the sex of an unborn baby...
                                                          but they can't get together on a name for it!
They can fill prime time television with garbage...
                                                          but you gotta get up at 5 A.M. to see educational shows!                                                        
They can spend years attempting to understand porpoises...
                                                          but can't get nations to understand each other!
And this publisher can offer a line of great classics...      
                                                          but at the same time put out trash like this!


Oh mad, you aren't trash. Not back then, at least.

"God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise"
-Corinthians 1:27

Things had been quite for some time, as I recall.
We (that’s my compatriot and I) had been trundling rather quaintly for going on the life expectancy of a blue bottle. And I wouldn’t say that ‘trundling’ is too strong a word either. A slow, heavy, easiness of being settled over St. Albans, an academic, social function that allows a person to exist without any mental input whatsoever. Lessons came and went- some we attended, some we did not- day became night and so on. We were content simply to lounge in a meditative state of hibernation, breaking occasionally to think about smoking.
     Our lull was turned on its head, however, suddenly. One strange Monday brought with it a sense of total restlessness, of nausea, of fatigue. Then, at the climax of this sensation, occurred another interminable lecture on Philosophy.
     I recall being recited at. My friend in front of me spoke in riddles from a typed script.
“Hello, Georgie speaking-that’s what I said to him. He wasn’t very happy about my job. The oldest profession. I’m not ashamed of it. The way I see it, I can provide a service that people are willing to pay me for. What’s wrong with that?”
As far I can remember there was blood oozing from my right ear or...maybe the left. My friend the prostitute kept a hand to my face, not allowing me to lay my head on the desk in sick despair. I moaned instead, attempting to drown her out. It didn’t help, so I slipped into a pained shanty
“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest”
I bellowed. She continued unabashed.
“But he’d gotten me so many...”
“Yo ho ho and a bottle of RUM”
“...It would have taken me a life time to use them all.”
“Drink and the devil be done for the rest!”
The room was reaching a shocking crescendo. A glance around and every-one appeared to be fighting with each other, shouting, screaming, turned away from the front of the room where Bates insisted of continuing her explanation of evidence for the soul. In a penetrating voice, being ignored. I was shouting out my song whilst fixing my waist-tie from my leather jacket into a noose.
Monism.
“The mate was fixed by the boson’s pike
The boson brained with a marlin spike and
Cookey’s throat was marked belike It
Had been gripped by fingers ten and”
Dualism.
“There they lay all good dead men like
Break o’ day in a boozing ken”
Who
Gives
A
“Yo Ho Ho and a BOTTLE of RUM!”
In a fit of something I slung the other end of my noose around the ceiling overhead projector. No-one appeared to notice. Goddamn it, I thought, why isn’t Ginger here? Looking over at her vacant seat there was a bizarre shadowy apparition growing a lush moustache.
Bates was by the white board so a climbed up on her desk and stuck my head through my noose. The room was in chaos. Charlie laughed hysterically whilst Frasier garrotted her with chains. Kiri was absent-mindedly puling out her own intestines and making patterns on the floor.
I surveyed this spectre. And was bored by it. I jumped off the desk.
     After the lesson I blazed through the streets to her house, dragging from my neck one projector that had torn from the ceiling, showering the scene with plaster.
She answered, automatically handing me a bottle of antique rum.
“Ginger,” I gasped, “we have to go. Anywhere. An adventure. Now, please.”
“Ok,” she said, sniffing a duck full of wheat germ, “Cuba.”
So Cuba it was.           

told you.

my compatriote cannot type. yet i cannot spell. A plague o'er both our faces.


Look us up. Type 'fucking freezing' in to google images, we're there somewhere. Toasting our own feet for sustinance. I have been intolerably cruel to a cat. I have stolen it's blanket.

Thosee who reject the typing into the holy search engine google "supreme master" may be disapointed to know we already know him, in fact he is a close persomal friend

tne words "bitch" and "foff!f" come to mind