A friend told me about Ortolan last year and I just had to try it. I flew to France and found a man named Pierre Lá Plu-plu, the world’s number one connoisseur of all things forbidden and edible, and we sat down, cloaked our heads, and ate about three Ortolans each. Disgusting, really, but that’s just how it goes: do you want to be a sponge or a stone?
Bad week. I’ve had two bicycles stolen in under five days. Both of them were nicked at the same spot outside my apartment, and both of them, foolishly enough, were tethered with the same style of Kryptonite lock. Fool me once: shame on me. Fool me twice: I’ll set you a fucking trap. I’ll lock another bike up, but I’ll douse the bugger in LSD 25, and I’ll wait round the corner. And when I’m sure you’ve got enough acid creeping through the skin on your hands to floor an elephant, I’ll come up behind you, tap you on the shoulder, and unload an entire can of Night Defender Pepper Gel into those creepy slits you call eyes. You’ll scream and put your hands to your face, and then I’ll club you over the spine with a cricket bat until I hear the loud crack that means your thoracic vertebrae are damaged beyond repair.
So there it is, you’ll be crippled and tripping for the rest of your natural life, you thieving piece of shit.
As you can probably tell, I’m not very happy. I like riding a bicycle around in summer time, but now I don’t have one because some bastard took it- twice. Fool me once: shame on me. Fool me twice: I’m going to get you.
Keep an eye on the New York Post police blotter for a badly beaten quadriplegic found lying in the street with three Burning Mans worth of acid clogging up his head. Then keep an eye out for headlines that read: DR. JUSTICE-BALLS STRIKES AGAIN! Because I plan to do some other stuff with trips and cricket bats and spines.
You just keep reading, doncha? I feel like I’m wasting your time.