On this one quite swift little planetoid, there’s a guy I predict may finally give prognostication a good name (albeit with a certain twist): His “headline/come-on” is as follows:
“Tell me what’s
going on already,
and I’ll tell you
After being shown an X-ray, a CAT-scan, and a full length Polaroid of his own brain, this one chap stepped back and said, “Oh no, you’re not getting me in one of those things.”
On his interplanetary travels, this one little scholar would ofttimes read a scrap of paper his father had handed him the day of his first departure. It said, “A trick shot in Tulsa ain’t shit in Sheboygan.” And for some reason, he’d always feel better for a little while.
All gods are born pagan, but once they become civilized they buy suits, get married, and just generally “blow it.” (No one’s really interested in a grown-up god.)
A corset adjuster I supped with accidentally on that glazed planet, told me that to keep a clear distinction to himself between his “factual knowledge” and his “opinions,” he called them both The Maxwell Brothers.