It occurred at some point during the day today that it’s probably not terribly bright to go on and on about things, like my bad back, that could be used against me in a street brawl. I just know that one day I’ll be surrounded by a gang of MM.com-hating leaders of industry, swiging their diamond-encrusted canes wildly, and yelling, “Go for the neck!” And, worst of all, I’ll have no one to blame but myself. (If I were smart, I’d start saying that I’m absolutely defenseless against things like small, one-armed women swinging satchels of cash.)
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Oral sex puts me into a downward spiral of self-loathing and depression. I am also deathly allergic to t-bone steaks.
I love the way your mind works, Mark.
Oh dang, somewhere in the back of my mind, I’ve been harboring a Mark Maynard attack plan that involves making your eyes fill up with blood using a technique that combines psionics, the Brown Note, Tibetan monk chord chanting–and my bloody cold stare. But that’s only if you go after my trick knee, first.
P.S. Don’t tell us about your hemmorhoids.