Jhiboudidi.
Jhiboudidi.
Jhiboudidi.
Jhiboudidi.

Duh. I draw portraits in my own blood and make voodoo dolls out of my hair.

Jeez, use a little creativity. This is why the Great and Terrible Under-God Jhiboudidi never delivers you the object of your affections.

You don't hate me, braak. You are crazy about me. You have a big shrine to me in your apartment, with candles and little sketches of what you imagine I look like, and every night you prostrate yourself in front of that shrine and just weep and weep.

OKAY NOW YOU HAVE TO BE REALLY JEALOUS BECAUSE I JUST TALKED TO PATRICK MOTHERFUCKING STEWART ON THE PHONE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!

You should be, because now they're SINGING.

I get to watch "Animal Farm" at work today.
Jealous?!!!!

You know, there is a thing called online shopping. You wouldn't even have to go in the store, so there's no need to fear being sexed up. Also, did you get a trim, or chop off your locks, completely?

And sometimes body fluids! A fight with all the most unimaginable body fluids in the whole wide universe. In public places, no less!

You should sooooo come visit.

Pennsylvania is where New Yorkers go when their will to struggle has left them.

I especially like the cartoon bats. Keepin' it classy, Pennsylvania!

A "knuckle sandwich", braak? What cave did they keep you in since 1947?