It was a big glass thing on Richie’s barber table what give me the idear. It was full a blue stuff like blueberry Kool-Aid an combs an stuff. I say, “Richie, what’s that bar-bi-cide” an Richie says “That’s a kinda special soap for my combs so they don’t get the lice.”
I says “Somebody comes in for a eight dollar haircut they shoulden get some other fella’s lice,” an Richie says “Nope, the lice cost extra!”
I like Richie. He cuts my hair ever second Thursday a the month. One time it was Easter an he dint but mostly he always does.
“You know,” says Richie “There’s regicide, that’s killin a king, an there’s genocide, that’s killin a bunch a people with the same religion–”
An I says “There’s homocide that’s killin a homo” cause I knowed that.
An Richie says, he says, “So I figure barbicide must be killin a barber!” an then laughs. Richie’s real ugly, his face is like you crumpled it an left something greasy on it but his hair is cut real good. His wife cuts it. He cuts everybody’s hair but his wife cuts his hair. Anyways he laughs real good.
He dint know I know about murder. One time this guy told me about murder an I remembered it hard as I could. He says you need the motive, that’s why you kill him, an method, that’s the way you do it, an opportunity, that’s when you get your chances.
Richie hands me the scissors an he turns an gets the razor like he always does an I had those means an that opportunity cause he always does that every second Thursday when he cuts my hair. I just needed a motive so I thunk an thunk but I couldn’t think a one.
I tried to think a one fore that next second Thursday but I couldn’t so when I was gettin my next haircut I says to Richie I says real joking about the opportunity an those means an I says I just need a motive an Richie says that’s easy an I said I couldn’t think a one an he says that’s easy an I said what.
He turns to give me the scissors like he always does but then he give em the wrong way, he sticks em right in me an Richie says, he says


You oughta drop in. It’s all chew what they say about how grate hell is (sp? Nobody thought to bring a dickshunary. Thank God. Books would of made life in hell hell!)

It’s a never-ending bitch party with necked sand volleyball and castles that last forever (unless someone kicks ‘em over. Someone usually does). One half of the place is frozen, the other a fiery lake. Remember the Polar Bare Club in Alaska? Like that accept we brake holes in the frozen lake, leap in, then dripping ice cubes, dash over to the one of fire.

Hey, remember the good times when we’d boozed up at ol’ fatty Slim Jim’s, then you’d talked me into driving us around town doing crazy shit like playing chicken with oncoming traffic or tossing the “Bridge Out” sign into the ditch? Damn, that was funny. At least I thought so until I drunkenly forgot about it on the drive home.

That’s what it’s like here–crazy fun! non-stop parties by the lakeside! the best practical jokes! One hot chick keeps an everlasting stash of whiskey chilled in the frozen lake. While we slurp Southern Comfort from rose-colored, plastic sand-buckets, the guy or gal who’s been the biggest pain in the neck of late gets roasted on a spit over the lakefire. It hurts like a son of a beach, but the pain receptors get charbroiled quick enough. Then we’ve got something to snack on with our buckets of booze. The meat rots fast, so we wolf it down. Tastes like chicken. Not a big deal to the guy being charred cuz he reappears after we’ve licked the last grease off our fingers.

You were always the life of the party, so I know you’d be a favorite as I’ve been. Life here is so much more exciting–better sex, sexier babes, faster boats, spicier meats, and no work. Heaven can’t beat this living.
RSVP. The guys look forward to meating you.

Sliggers! by Gamesaplenty may or may not be fun for the whole family. Your family may contain members who are brain damaged, infantile, incapable of following the very easy instructions, or who simply do not like fun. Alternatively, your family may have tastes in fun that are far too sophisticated to allow enjoying our game, which is after all just a holographic knock-off of Parcheesi tarted up with slightly eroticized dancing foxes. Gamesaplenty takes no responsibility for the inability to play or transcendence of our game by members of your family or by anyone else.

Neither the new 2029 Ford Curfew nor any other vehicle currently on the market will change everything.

Liteline products will only help you lose weight if you reduce calorie intake and exercise more–and if you do that, you’ll lose weight anyway. Liteline products will not in and of themselves give you new confidence. If you actually do lose the weight, you will still not look like the models in the Liteline commercials.

Tastiness and expeditiousness have been reliably identified as characteristics of Powermilk Biscuits in double blind research (2021, 2027).

FDA studies have concluded that there is no Coke side of life. Coke does not make anything real and is not itself real. Due to occasional instances of improper bottling and/or counterfeiting, it is not even always Coca-Cola. While it is true that you can’t beat the real thing, as established above, that thing is not Coke. The feeling is sometimes mildly pleasureable but can be beaten fairly easy, e.g., by playing Sliggers! (by some members of the family only). America does have a real choice, but Coke is not it. Coke cannot be had with a smile without spilling. Measures of life before and after drinking Coke indicate that Coke does not add any.

Old Lady Think can flip dark to light and light to dark like a pancake. She lives out beyond the Milky Way, which the Dineh think is made up of the footprints of the dead. (They’re right on this one, but they’re not in this story.)

She’s got a bunch of names, more names than Allah, and—no offense, new gods—she’s far older. Used to sit around in the caves with us, looking pretty overweight and extremely pleased with herself. Now she appears in many forms, sometimes as a mysterious 2 a.m. call on your cell phone, or a bagel you did not order.

Such a bagel appeared on Nora McPherson’s plate during her lunch hour in the East Village. She’d stopped in to ignore some dancers she used to know before she moved uptown and went to work for Wall Street. (Nothing wrong with Wall Street, mind you, if you think about all the dancers it funds.)

Ms. McPherson took a bite anyway, after the cranky waitress wouldn’t take it back, neither of them suspecting that the waitress held the pose of the ancient High Priestess of Tiamat as she did this. By the end of lunch Ms. McPherson was drafting her two weeks notice; by the end of dinner she was drunkenly apologizing over the phone to a friend from Juilliard, and at 9 a.m. the next morning she had an audition.

Back behind the Milky Way, Old Lady Think just smiled. Making mountains is fun, but sometimes, it’s the little things, like sending visionary bagels to the monkey children.

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