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it was a cold and rainy night when i stopped into my favorite bar, "the cuban missle crisis." i squeezed my '72 Lincoln Continental Mark IV in between a pair of riced out range rovers. the metal only squealed a little. i nodded to george, the bouncer with a difference (he had aspergers) on my way in. i slid up to the bar, and ordered a buick explosion. as i sipped it, senator tom q. porkbarrel sat on the stool next to me. not saying a word, i slid him one (1) unprocessed raw salmon. he, in exchange, handed me michael jackson's medical details. all the elements were falling into place...
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