I eat Screech and crap Slater

Even my shit turns spaghetti-armed Jews into thuggish — yet friendly — Latino rapscallions.

Now, how about that?  Why, isn’t that something?

It seems like, from day to day, hour to hour, even minute to minute, I feel simultaneously powerful and impotent, beautiful and hideous, constipated and still my guts retch and wrench with a foaming sea of diarrhea.  I could go off at any moment, but my show’s on, so I can’t leave the house.

Try sleeping at night with that.

In the immortal words of Peggy Gravel, “Don’t tell me I don’t know what Vietnam is!”

Wow, they really broke the mold when they made old Hobart Sloms.

Fly me to the moon, and let me play among the stars, even though playing around some stars would burn my goddamned limbs off instantaneously.  It does sound fun, though.

Sick unto death.

Yours,

Hobart Sloms

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