This is a very efficient way to tell your liver "fuck you! I don't fucking like you!" To tell the truth, I'm afraid to stand up. I'm mildly buzzed, but judging by the level of whiskey in the jar when I stand up I am going to be sitting right back down again. -- H.R. Taffs
The world has held its breath since that fateful day last June when word came that a plane carrying world-renown Beverotologist Special Ed Ward had crashed in the South Pacific, miles from the nearest landmass, all occupants presumed dead.
But things took a strange twist today when Pigdog received the following
images, sent ostensibly from an obsolete Xerox 7032/7033I Telecopier.
They were accompanied by another image, not shown, which consisted of some
weird scribbles and the words "Special Ed Lives" in what appeared to be yak
blood or something similar.
When we tried to return a query about possibly speaking with Special Ed or his strange representatives, we were
faxed back the following missive in a weird, spidery script:
Hey, man, you don't talk to Special Ed. You listen to him. The
man's enlarged my mind. He's a poet-warrior in the classic sense. I mean
sometimes he'll, uh, well, you'll say hello to him, right? And he'll just
walk right by you, and he won't even notice you. And suddenly he'll grab
you, and he'll throw you in a corner, and he'll say do you know that "if"
is the middle word in life? "If" you can keep your head when all about you
are losing theirs and blaming it on you, "if" you can trust yourself when
all men doubt you - I mean I'm no, I can't - I'm a little man, I'm a little
man, he's, he's a great man. I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling
across floors of silent seas...
Pigdog will keep abreast of this story as it develops.