On eBay. Isn't that great? I don't even own my personal fingerprints anymore. I sold them to Abdul Abduhullah Abduhulleverlast so he could try to be The First Idiot of Afghanistan several years ago, a nation that used to exist solely to provide the National Geographic with cover quality photographs but is now just a kind of global Detroit for kite-flying niggers who aren't quite black enough to really despise.
If you think you can't believe the things I write, I can't believe 90% of the horse exhaust I read or view that purports to be news.
After I arrived in Portland, Oregasm — another of the many malignant assholes of the universe — in 1981, I started writing a column for Multnomah Monthly Magazine, which once ran a cartoon by Joe Spooner that suggested the shelter was run by Nazis. The last panel had rescued cats and dogs asking: Where's the soap?
I gave two poetry readings in Portland and found the audiences so creepy that I began building anti-personnel ordnance that your duly elected leaders suggest inspire improvised explosive devices used around the world against people have been never able to defend themselves against unlawful search, seizure, being hanged upside down over firepots and asked whether their mamas know they blow.
No. I'm not talking about your friends.
It's really nice to sit at home and imagine how horrible it is to be fucked with by criminals.