It’s while staring for endless hours upon the unsettling toothy grin and singular crazy eye of Joel Osteen that I find myself thinking.. “I wish I had some jetpants.”
I need an apartment. Who’da thunk I’da needed a place to, like, permanente live? Whodey?
Rest in Peace, Joe Nuxhall. I hope I remember our secret handshake when I get up to heaven. Oh, who am I kidding. I’m not going to heaven. It’s made of marshmallows and they don’t want me there because they want me to be sad. Who fucking needs them, anywise? Forget ’em, Joe. You’re better’n them, anyhow. I’ll meet you on a neutral astral plane and we can give our play-by-play commentary of the Apocalyptic war between heaven-and-hell whilst discussing our favorite iced cremes and those down-home JTM stekes now on sale at your local Kroger-brand-Kroger-store.
If you’re not Joe and/or you’re not in heaven then don’t read that last part. It… it’s personal.
I’m talkin’ to YOU Norman Mailer.