We do not discuss the third one


There is, or, rather there was a time, when a man could strongly assert that Jell-O was the greatest of all snacks and not be stricken down by the woke mob demanding that Malt-O-Meal also be mentioned. A time when a man could, wit glee, drink bleach and not be hounded by the nanny state. A time when, as someone once said (Tom Wolf maybe? Or was it Dick Coyote?): “Fuck them kids”. That time is long gone, nearly forgotten in the mists of time and the cold, hungry vacuum of space and that is why I, Yeggner X. Shoopers III, come here before you today to ask – nay, to demand, with a heavy heart and a full sack, that Boss Hogg be declared the one true messiah and that we all wear the ceremonial vestments (cheap synthetic white suits. Must be off the rack and ill-fitting) and take the sacrament (mass produced cigars and “bourbon” consisting mostly of grain alcohol).

Do this, or face the darkness.


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