"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; attrib. Everett Peck.