"Don't you see what it's like in this deranged whirring blender of a world? Everyday is an agonizing ordeal, like balancing a pot of scalding water on your head while people whip your legs and butt (eh, you never forget your senior prom). You think I'm sick? Well the only disease I've got is modern life, a shnaug busting gauntlet of inefficiency and misery, that's one long parade of let downs, put downs, trickle downs, shut outs, freeze outs, sell outs, numb-nuts, nincompoops, and nimrods. All making everyday about as fun as waxing a flaming Pontiac with you tongue, where even if you do look into the possibility of some fleeting pleasure, like say, if some nymphomaniac telephone operator with the muscle control of a Romanian madslapper agrees to a little strip air hockey, it'll be over before it starts. Because some foul smelling, feathery, cab-jockey slams his checker up your hatchback, and the cab is owned by some Piņata spanker from a Santa Rio cult in Walculpa who starts shaking chicken bones at you and gives you a boil on your neck so big, all it needs is Michael Jordan's autograph to make it complete. And even with all this, with all this, I still drag my sorry butt off the ceiling every morning and stick my face in the reaping machine for one more day, knowing when it's time to flash the cosmic car keys at those pearly gates, I won't be in a coffin anyway because some under handed, undertaker sold my heart, pancreas and other assorted good and plenty to that same Santa Rio cult! So does anybody really wonder why anybody is hanging on to sanity by the atoms on the tips of their fingernails, while life dirty dances on the digits, and is it really any wonder WHY I SEEM DERRANGED?!" -- Duckman, Room with a Belleveu