Animal?
"I am not an animal! Well, okay, I'm kind of an animal. I mean, a few of my features are animal-like and I don't wear clothes, and I smell a little outdoorsy most of the time, but I have a job and I talk and stuff, so when I say I'm not an animal, I think, technically, I'm on solid ground."
Words to live by...
"So you think I'm sick? Well the only disease I've got is modern life. A schnugbusting gauntlet of inefficiency and misery that's one long parade of let downs, trickledowns, freeze outs, sell outs, shut outs, numb nuts, nincompoops, and nimrods all making everyday as much fun as waxing a flaming Pontiac with your tongue. Where even if you do luck into some fleeting pleasure like say if some nymphomaniac telephone operator with the muscle control of Romanian mat slappers agree to a little strip air hockey it's over before it starts. 'Cause some vowel lacking, feta reeking, cab jockey slams his checker into your hatchback and the cab is owned by some piņata spanker from a Santeria cult in Wacompa who starts shacking chicken bones at you and gives you a boil on your neck so big all it needs is Michael Jordan's autograph to make it complete. And even with all this...WITH ALL THIS...I still manage to drag my sorry ass off the Sealy morning and stick my face in the reaping machine for one more day. Knowing that when it comes time to flash the cosmic card key at the pearly gates I won't be in the coffin anyway because some underhanded undertaker has sold my heart, liver, pancreas, and other assorted good 'n' plenties to the same Santeria cult. So does anyone really wonder why anyone is hanging on to sanity by the atoms on the tips of their fingernails while life dirty dances on their digits? And is it really any wonder that I seem deranged?"
