You. Yeah, you. You crust pocked flower farmer, two leaves on the backboard crusher, never gonna call the yellow pages veganite. You really got the Cambodians on the loose while your tooth filled suit rots in the neighborhood retard's ashes. Maybe you saw too little, a crocadillo nutcracker twice the width of your conscience and half as riddled with self-aggrandizing taglines from the old horror pictures. What you got ain't got you nothing, what you had has had it, what you need ain't needed, what you'll get don't get you anything. Stop poking Uncle Ben's cylinder and get your foot off the tracks and onto the train of thought of some other demented retina. Not mine, pinko. Try peeping into the trailer trash thursday special with extra barbed wire for a change of face, glaze it over onto the depreciated coup de swill and knot it into 457 individually marked packages of Assad brand contraceptives, cause time just got cheaper.