He was in blue jeans and a work shirt, which is another weird quirk of Rich Old Men. Just one of the guys here. Blue jeans and a work shirt, salt of the earth, working man like yourself. Like they're somehow uncomfortable about being rich enough to sleep in a bed made of vaginas being pulled around the town at night by a fleet of gold-covered midgets.

good morning sinners. vampiric red bull intake in pub smoking compound commenced. day of heavy brain-fingering ahead.

By four o'clock, I've discounted suicide in favor of killing everyone else in the entire world instead.

I admit that I have sometimes claimed to be Batman in the past. But only when really, really drunk.

There's one hole in every revolution, large or small. And it's one word long— PEOPLE. No matter how big the idea they all stand under, people are small and weak and cheap and frightened. It's people that kill every revolution.

What? I bring joy to the world. I am filled with mirth and sunlight. Also, I am Batman.

I was having a mildly paranoid day, mostly due to the fact that the mad priest lady from over the river had taken to nailing weasels to my front door again.