CCLXXXIII

Death to Bobby Brown! "It's My Prerogative" rings out across the stage ... as the last bars of that stupid inane piece of dreck roll forth a masked man wearing nothing but black jumps forth carrying ... what ... it can't be ... It is ... an M-60 ... with a flamethrower on it ... oh joy oh ecstasy! Bobby's body is torn to little shreds by the 600 rounds per minute of anti-helicopter fire ... see bobby become particles! What fun! and then we have to clean up this mess. <<Fwoooooooooooooossssssssshhhhhhhh>> goes the flamethrower as blood and guts of what used to be Bobby Brown become so much charcoal! The Ogre, take toothbrushing for example. Did you ever notice how some people don't drool when they brush their teeth? The particularly gifted can stick a loaded toothbrush in their mouths and then proceed to stroll casually about the house change clothes do some aerobics phone a friend or two take a nap bathe and maybe do some shopping before returning -- sans drool -- to rinse. The more um frothy among us are slaves to our own hygiene destined to remain stationary at the bathroom sink wallowing from our noses to our elbows in freely flowing toothpaste suds. Just one of life's littler;