RIP, Col. Potter.
Thank you, Veterans.
Happy Eleven Day!
Hello ladies. Look at your man. Now back to me. Now back at your man. Now back to me. Sadly, he isn’t me, but if he was a rock-star level internationally famous wicked badass author who bathed in the dust of diamonds like a particularly fabulous sparrow, he could sparkle like he’s me.
Look down. Back up. Where are you? You’re in an underground alternate universe with the man your man will never write like. What’s that in your hand? Back at me. I have it. It’s Batman, except now it’s the Dick Grayson version because his ass is that thing you love. Now look again. The tickets are now white German Shepherds!
Everything is possible when your man’s hair has a consciousness of its own. I’m on a horse.
Happy birthday, Neil! Our gift to you is the strangest thing I could find in the archive.
Thank you. I think.