I Can't Use This Anymore

Right. 46 is Quentin Tarintino. If that is his real name. I hate him because he sucks. I hate him because I think I was the only person bored with Pulp Fiction. I hate him because he makes shitty movies. But mostly I hate him because he also didn't respond to repaying my student loans.
Go rip off another movie you twat.
Whoever the fuck invented receipts can eat a dick. It's bad enough I am standing in line to buy my Copenhagen behind six people all buying gum and Gatorade and paying with checks, now I have to have paper saying I bought Copenhagen and an Orange. Great. This will come in handy. I don't need to prove I like oranges or I dip. I don't need proof of purchase. I can't take the fucking orange or dip back. But thank you for letting me throw this piece of paper away for you. Asshat.
My mother doesn't come around here. She doesn't see the man her son became. She wouldn't recognize me if she did. She would see the once green eyes that looked like the ocean have changed. The color is becoming more brown everyday, as if a giant mudslide polluted the waters that once flowed in my eyes. The flowing glow that once made the ocean sparkle is also gone. The waters are still and appear to be coughing up all the fish that once thrived in the depths.
My father doesn't call. He doesn't vocalize the disappointment to his first born. No grandchildren will be given to the aging man. No common bond can be shared between what would be an incompetent boss and his best employee were we the same age. No kind words are passed between the drunk and the priest.
My parents don't know where I am. They have my address, time zone and phone number. They know where I live. They send me mail and gifts. They write letters expressing great pride. They ask for photographs of me. They tell their friends all about how well I have done for myself. They have no idea the thoughts that run through me head. They can't fathom the insanity I dream of. They will never know who I am or how I feel. They fear that I won't return. They don't realize I am already gone.
I have a friend who says God is a myth. He isn't mythological enough for me. The kid who plays shortstop for me says that there is an Angel watching over me. He isn't watching close enough for me. My priest says the end is near. It's not near enough for me. My bartender says I've had enough. I haven't had enough for me.

Somewhere New

Right. Number 47 is the guy who invented reciepts. I had a lot of shit to say about that, but I don't feel like it. I got some bad news. I don't want to talk about anything really.
But Avril Lavigne is fucking hot. She doesn't make the new news any better though.

I Miss Chad McGreevy

Right. Number 48 is you, you stupid ass A-Rod hater. You hate A-Rod, and I hate you more than Al Gore, but less than 47 other idiots. You are a moron and you need to stop watching baseball.
When people tell me they hate A-Rod, the argument can usually be boiled down to one of 4 standard arguments. 1) He isn't clutch. 2) He makes too much money. 3) He's a Yankee. 4) He is a spoiled little bitch.
Allow me to retort.
He isn't clutch. And you have been so clutch in your life? That's why you are tossing boxes in a truck for UPS. You really nailed that interview. And congrats on passing the drug test. Moron.
He makes too much money. I news for you, every baseball player makes too much money. That's why dad doesn't buy the family season tickets. Because he would rather live in a house than watch baseball. So since your argument can be applied to everyone in every sport, and most likely anyone with a college degree, and you don't hate everyone, then your argument is bullshit.
He's a Yankee. And? Did I miss something? What the fuck has happened to the world? There's only 1 trilogy, and it doesn't involve hobbits. And there's only one baseball team and it's the boys in pinstripes. At some point in time during my life, the world go all catywonkis and it drives me insane. There are more people who like Satan than like A-Rod and the Yanks. Something is wrong abou tthat. The Yankees are capitalism. I like capitalism. And so do you. Trust me. Bint.
He's a spoiled little bitch. I don't spend any quality time with A-Rod, so I really can't say that he's not. But I will say this, you'd be spoiled too if you had any talent aside from beating your kids. The world spoils greatness, and he is the best player in the league, and it's not even close.
In summation, go away and stop hating A-Rod. I hate you and wouldn't mind you being made into a soup, you A-Rod hater you.
Still no word on my packet. Yossarian is getting upset!
I am going to be coaching little league baseball here shortly. I am looking forward to it.
So with my new staff job comes endless amounts of meetings and briefings and bullshit. Some of it is all no windows and super secret type shit. Even that shit is useless. It does give me a chance to play sudoku in my head though.
I think I have diabetes. I gained like 20 pounds last week, and it's not all ear wax because I q-tip that shit out daily. But to gain 20 pounds when you run as much as I do and eat as little as I do is remarkable. My burps also taste like sugar. So I am sure I have diabetes. Which is fitting. My sodding brother will probably win the lottery. Bloody hell.
She watches it rain and comments about how puddles are beautiful. She smiles awkwardly and says very polite things. She runs on a treadmill and sweats, what I only imagine, tastes like heaven. She wipes the sweat off her with a pink towel, making me wish I could trade soul with that towel. She listens to her Ipod as she does aerobics and slightly mouths the chorus and moves her fingers to the verses. I watch everyday and become a little more alive. Then, her husband picks her up. She says I am bipolar. I think she may be right, but I know she is my sun.

Shine On You Crazy Fucktard

Right. I can't believe we are already to number 49. Stop the fucking presses, it's Al Gore. Dipshit extraordinaire. Global warming my dickhead. Guess what there asshat, it's late fucking March and it's snowing like a cocksucker outside. But wait, that's the cause of global warming. So when it is hotter than one would like, it's global warming. When it gets bitter and cold, it's global warming. Well doesn't that just beat all? No matter what happens, it proves the theory right. Well fuck.
Go to hell with that shit.
I have a theory. It's called "Al Gore is a child molester." I have no proof he is a child molester, but I am sure I can make a movie about it.
I hate you more than Fergie. How do you feel about yourself? You probably feel pretty well considering you think it must be the heat (or cold) that makes me think this way. But you are a douche bag. But never fear there Cockface, I hate 48 people more than you. But I really hate you.
Also, you never replied to my letters asking you to pay off my student loans. So fuck you. A simple "no" would have sufficed. Asshat.

Can you believe that the Colonel didn't wish to speak to me today? I think that bodes badly for me. We will see. It also sucked that I didn't drink for breakfast or lunch and he didn't speak to me. My liver hurts because it didn't have a job to do today. My liver likes to work.
It's not that I've had a bad time, it's more 4 years of being at the needs of someone else is taxing. I'd like to focus on my needs. That and I can never use my brain. I feel like I can't even breathe. I like my brain. I don't like suffocating.
I think if Elvis were alive today, he'd still get laid more than me. Laid by non-brothel working girls that is.
I get hangnails close to every other day.
I like water. I miss Aquafina. That was some refreshing water. Dasani sucked. And fuck a bunch of Evian. Aquafina is the shizzle. I am a water snob.
I wish I had a wooden leg. I wish I would then loose my wooden leg. Mainly because, how many people can say they lost the same leg twice? Just me. Then I'd get a stick and a pair of binoculars and maybe some cans of tuna and possibly a hat and go adventuring in an attempt to find my wooden leg. It would be good times. But a fucking dog has probably found my wooden leg already. He chewed on the fucker too. It wont fit right and I'd just end up giving the dog my leg. But I would have found this cool beer can from the 1950's. It's neat. I'd put it above my fireplace and tell everyone that I lost a leg but gained that can. They might think I'm crazy. But they don't have the can. And they won't get it when I die either. I want to be buried with that shit.
My Ipod is a jerk. It decides at random times that it will stop working. Only it will stay on. So I have to wait for the battery to drain before I can charge or listen to it. Then at other times it decides to freeze my computer when I want to charge it. And sometimes it opts to not let me unplug it from the computer, forcing me to try to reset it 50,000,000,000 times. When it does work it does other stupid shit. Like play nothing but Norah Jones and Boards of Canada when I am running or working out. Then the second I want to go to sleep, it's all Civ and the Clash and Motorhead and shit. What the fuck Ipod?

Check Out My Gyro Balls

Right. We are going to mix things up a bit. And by "we" I mean "me" because you are providing nothing here. Seriously. You are like the guy who comes over for dinner and doesn't bring anything. Shithead.
Anywho, We (I) are (am) going to count down the top 50 people I hate. Not all at once mind you. One a day.
Number 50:
Fergie. Not hot. And what in the blue hell are you singing about? My humps? Fergalicious? You now have your own London Bridge?
When your manager brings over your pay checks, do you wear a ski mask? Because you are stealing. There is also something about you that looks like you might have at one point in time been sexed up by a gorilla. And that gorilla covered you in his cum. And gorilla cum turns into plastic.
You are not attractive and have fooled the world into believing that you are. I believe you did this through trickery you learned from that bitch who played Blossom. You make my cock wish it could hide in my pubic hair.
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Stop making music. Stop making up words. Stop making my nieces dumb.
The only good thing about you is the inevitable porn you will star in. It will be you taking it up the ass from some dude who talks about your hump is fergalicious and you write a new song about ringing a bell helps you attract boys and the pyramid was built by love. You daft twat.

I dropped my packet today. Tomorrow should be fun. I'm going to have to talk to the Colonel. Maybe I ought not drink for breakfast and lunch tomorrow.
I have these slippers my mom bought me for Christmas, and they are the jet. At first I hated them, but now I love these fuckers. They are stupid looking and nerdish. They look like slippers a father wore in the 1950's while he smoked a pipe. Speaking of which, where can a brother get some of those button up pajamas? I am such a dork.
I am a grown ass man and I have no idea what the fuck Grey's Anatomy is. Moreover, based on the type of people I hear talking about such blither, I don't want to know what it is.
Q: What was Custer's last words?
A: "You ever see so damn many Indians?"
That shit is funny.
You know what rules about being Catholic? Everything that's what.
Let us all agree that I am the best thing ever.
I want us all to go gamble. Everyone of us. I want to sit around gambling with you. Because I like you. And I like gambling. If you read this blog, I want to gamble with you. Then, I'd like to take our winnings and pay for us all to watch a woman with father issues shove things up her ass. Weird things. Like frogs and shit. And large things. Like bowling pins and shit. And sexy things. Like those leg lamps in that Christmas movie. That's the kind of blogger I am. I am like a super nice non-murdering non-crazy Charles Manson.
Please look into my old face and see the pretty man I once was. Because I once was pretty. I wasn't always broke and empty. I wasn't always on my knees. I once stood and walked with great men. I wasn't always a monster. But then again. I look into your pretty young face and see the haggard old woman you are. Because you are now horrid. He ensures you aren't broke, but you keep yourself vapid. You have taken to a life on your knees. You now stand and walk with cretins. You look like an angel.

Gay Asians For Straight Caucasians

Right. I like to look at the faces of meth posters at the post office. I sometimes spend my lunch hanging out at the post office, pretending to be looking for a specifically abnormally sized box that doesn't exist so that I can stare at the faces of meth. Most of them look photoshopped. But they still freak me out. But not really a freak out. More, a wow out. I sometimes wish I looked like those folks. I don't know why, but to me, they look like God's ashtray. I miss smoking.
People who like Akon piss me off to no end. I can sing through a kazoo and I ain't gone platinum.
I have ideas. But most of them involve extraordinary happenings taking place leaving me offensively wealthy and me being able to live my life the way I want. So I guess I don't have ideas so much as I have dreams. Fuck.
I like to sit at work and pretend like I give a shit. It's fun to sit there and make it look like I am paying attention when all I am really doing is having visions of JESSICA BIEL on our wedding night. Sometimes I have visions of the day I leave the Army and what I will feel like. Today all I had were visions of my dog freaking out when I come home.
My hands look more and more like my father's everyday. My hands are huge all of a sudden. It's like puberty for my hands. It's fucked up. I am becoming concerned about the amount of earwax I produce. It's rather alarming. What is happening? I hope all this strange growth means my cock will grow to frightening sizes. That would be sweet.
I read a lot. Seriously. I hope my voracious reading lately means my cock will grow to frightening sizes.
There isn't a thing that happens that I don't hope isn't a sign that my cock will grow to frightening sizes. Like a pringles can, only with veins and a head.
I just can't get into basketball. I wish I could. But I can't.
Just because a man wears a mask, doesn't mean he has something to hide.
My dog is great. I miss her. She doesn't fetch though. She just sort of runs after what I throw and then gets distracted. Then forgets what she is doing. She doesn't really play dead. Instead, she bites the shit out of me and growls at the wall. She doesn't really sit, she more sprints around the house for no reason and growls at nothing. She does however lie down next to me and sleep and she licks my face when I don't feel well and bites the blanket and pulls it up over me when I sleep. She's a good dog. I miss her.

What Will Bring Me Home

Right. Love pulls sore muscles. I remember when this blog was a good time. Remember when cocaine opined about incoherrent shit? Remember when that one girl would argue with unkind? Remember when I wrote about things other than how I hate my job? I remember these things. I wonder what that psychic who said the clearly true statement that I will marry JESSICA BIEL would say if she actually met me. They don't call me danger boy anymore. They don't call me anything.
I would like to have a sitdown with the President. There are things I'd like to ask him.
I watched "The Departed" this weekend. Are you joking me? That movie won awards? That sucked. I hated it. First of all, it was dumb. Second of all, it was really dumb. If I don't like a movie, something is wrong because I like everything. Except for crap, and "The Departed" was crap. Don't wactch it. Unless you like crap.
When I am an old man and all fucked up and ready to die and all. I'll bet there will be a gaggle of nurses arguing over who gets to do the sponging. I will be such the old man ready to die pimp. Then when I die, the nurses will straighten my hat and button my shirt and kiss old man dead pimp Yossarian as they cry and send me off to the ground. When I am in the ground, all the grubs and insects and shit that lives in the dirt will eventually chew through the box I will be contained in. They will be mighty tired after all the work of chewing through the wood and when bugs and shit that live in dirt get tired they fuck. So they will fuck all over me and lay eggs and whatnot. My body will then be fodder for the results of bug fucking. I should tell those hot nurses that dead pimp Yossarian should be burned and his ashes need to be spread over popcorn, because I am a salty dude. I make shit taste better anyway. Like today when my noodles sucked and I added a little thing called "boiling water." Then them bastards tasted good.
I should blog more. I have been slacking. Mostly because I work so much.
I wonder what's the worst that can happen if I just stopped talking and began to stare at a wall. I wonder what's the worst that can happen if I did that long enough to get locked up in a mental institution. I wonder what's the worst that can happen if I wear a white robe and slippers and watch TV the rest of my life. I wonder what's the worst that can happen. Because I like slippers, robes, sleep and not having moronic conversations with people.
The thing that I really love about my life is that no matter what happens, at some point in time I might get something I want. It's good to have something to look forward to.
Democrats have zero ideas. Republicans only have bad ideas. I'm not sure who said that, but I like it. But then again, I like the idea of living in a mental institution and I've never considered myself a republican. But then again I've never considered myself a democrat. I think I'm more of a guy waiting for things to make sense, or at least be abducted by aliens.

A Morning Yawn

Right. My fucking blogger dashboard is in German and I can't figure out how to change it to normal. I don't sprechkizen phlegm clearing. Stupid barbaric peoples. A great thing about my new job is that it fucking blows. You might not understand why that is great, and neither do I. But I was told to look on the bright side. So it's fucking awesome that my new job is a mind numbing suicide promoting labour of futility.
What would happen if Zeus and the God's of antiquity came to visit us today? If the God we worship today visited the same day, what would happen? A battle for dominance? I'd bet they'd agree how fucked up we've gotten and leave again. I am looking forward to the new God rolling in and leaving us again. We are a wretched species. And every Diety has known this. This is why they leave and refuse to return.
If a man walks to the store five times a week and rides to the store twice a week. I suppose a better SAT question would be, "What the fuck is dude going to the store so much for?"
People like to pretend like the microcosm they live in makes a difference. The problem is when a group of people share the same microsom. Problems arise. Because one person can make a difference. A group of people can only make stupidity. The difference one person can make is usually to the detriment of the peoples.
My life is a hangover. Thus, the headache I will get in the morning will not phase. Because even though I might see double, it only makes it twice as clear that in a million years we will be born again and I will have to regret another missed opportunity with her. My life is an addiction. Thus, the twitch I will have in a few minutes will not bother. Because even though I might scratch till I bleed, it only makes me want stitches more because then you could rip new wounds on me. My life is a disappointment. Thus, the phone call I will get from my father will not bother. Because even though I will have lived a thousand lives and disoppointed a thousand fathers, I would disappoint one thousand more to satisify you once. My life is closing. Thus, the last breath of air a gasp won't inhale. Because even though I have respired countless times, I would give all but one up if the first gas I inhaled was your breath.

Midnight To Six Flags

Right. Yossarian is putting together the old resume together. It is a pain. Mainly because I haven't done anything with my life except for have a strong desire to bone hookers. The lack of shit to put on my resume has led me to want to put intensely serious shit to fill the space and pique the interest of the reader.
For example, in my work history section I never really "worked" so I was going to write, "I went to work on a sumbitch of a Reuben at lunch today." In my objective section I wrote, "You want to give me a job. And while we're at it, these aren't the droids you're looking for." With a resume like this, fortune is around the corner. Also without the knowledge of putting the french thing over the "e" for resume, I think I might be the most unqualified person for any job ever.
I was thinking of staying in for the 20. I mean the Army is easy. It's too easy. Show up and run. Done. I run well, so no one gives me any shit. All you really have to do to make a career in the Army is be able to run. Or at least beat your boss. If you can't beat a 50 year old in a footrace, then you should have maybe thought of growing a sac with some hair on it. Then I just run down my checklist: call someone a fuck stick. Check. Say some homophobic shit; "That's as wrong as two boys fucking in church." Check. Take charge; "I'm fucking this chick. You're just holding the legs." (This also degrades women, and asserts your own masculinity so you get bonus points.) Check. Do a crossword puzzle. Check. Solve problems that pop up, "I'll handle this sir." Check. Read the sports section. Check.
That is my life. People seem to think I'm going to be a fucking general one day. When pressed they just say I , "got that look." Got that look? The look of a battered wife? Because that's how I feel. I use my brain about as much as a monkey uses soap. I like using my brain. I find it enjoyable. It makes me happy. The Army hates it when I use the noodle. But nonetheless, I will leave and hopefully find something more stimulating.
I missed yesterday for you and I am eternally sorry. Also internally sorry. As in the insides of me are sorry also. Everything is sorry. Except for Peter. That motherfucker doesn't care.
We did a squadron run today. If you've never, you shouldn't. Especially if you like to run. I do. The Colonel leads the run and we have to run at his pace and we sing some songs and all in all it is stupid. But I am in a new squadron, and everyone is all, "Fuck. The Colonel runs fast. I am going to fall out." I'm thinking it's about time. If you can't do four miles in under 30 minutes, then you should think of a career change. Today we start running and I notice that I am behind five of the fattest bastards you'll ever meet. Nothing impresses me more than a fat guy who can run so I start to get real motivated. We took off at about a seven minute pace and about half a mile into the run that shit slowed down. Dramatically. It was sad. People were falling out. Puking. I mean, by the end of it we were at like a 10 minute pace. You can skip faster. I was mad. Don't piss down my back and tell me it's raining. Do not waste my time. I came to run. Not to pansy frolic through a field for an hour.
I took a pre-test online for MENSA yesterday. I got 27 out of 30 questions right. I think they should make me a member because I refuse to pay them to take the real test to pay dues to a club that will get me nowhere. I am a genius because of that, not my test score.
I look forward to the fall of all government. I got time next Thursday. I hope it happens then.

One Foot On The Ground

Right. I have to go. The stars will soon fall. I am unsure as to how exactely old light gains matter and crushes the earth, but I am told these things happen. It makes me sad to think that were this to come to pass, the history books will consider light physicially stronger than me.
What would you do if you knew a fanous person read your blog? What would you do if you didn't know that particular famous person? What if you didn't know that famous person because you don't know any famous people? What if then, said famous person made a lot of money in the medium making that person famous by clearly plagerizing your blog? Would you prosecute? I only ask these questions because I think it's clear that that fake ass black dude stole the creative contents contained within my blog and made a boatload of those "Gods must be crazy" movies. Little man owes me some grip.
When does one speculate that this story will end? I am guessing on page 238. That's just me. I could be wrong. I been wrong before. It's cool. I got broad shoulders. I also have trust issues. So you never know.
What you need to do, is turn this motherfucker up real loud, right now.
It breaks my heart when I think of everything I will never be. Every person I will never speak with. Every girl I will never make out with. Every song I won't hear. Every job I'll never have. Every rain I will never stand in. Every game I will never watch. Every miles I never ran. I will never be or do any of this because I am terrified. It breaks my heart when I think of everything I will be. I will be and do what I will because I am terrified.
I need compressed air. One can of it please.
I like how the advanced peoples of Europia can't figure out how to purify tap water. It cause me to buy expensive ass water at the market and causes women to be dehydrated. Dehydration causes brain damage. Thus, these women are fucked in the head. Good job.
When will all of this shit happen? I pray soon. I know never.
Where is my man unkind? Bitch needs to show up and keep me posted on happenings happening.
I wish someone would interview me. I have answeres to questions yet unasked and my answers are unquestioned in their accuracy and correctness as ever question I have ever answered has been answered to unquestionable clear levels. My answeres astound. Your questions are defeated by my answers.

There Is A Difference Between Gold And Hoop Earings

Right. We, as a species, never take time to stop and consider the lilies of the god damn field. That is unless you are me and you do, because it's really the only thing that keeps sanity in the god damn field. Lilies. I'll be a mother fucker.
I am trying to go to SERE school volume two. Mostly because I want to. SERE sucked, but I am sure the advanced SERE school is better. I doubt I'll get a slot because I am planning on getting out of the Army, and I will do all I can to leave, so I will probably not get a slot.
I have like 11 months until things make sense again. I still don't have a job, so I need help. Unkind is apparently getting a bomb job. I haven't spoken with him about this job, but if I had to guess his new job will be a producer at a television station where naked big tittied women read sports scores all day and manufacture fire works and chocolate and he will make 500,000 a month. I know this because I am destined to be envious of his good fortunes.
I have a new job too. I am no longer a platoon leader. I am just some dude who does paper work and watches his life pass by. Now I would be fine with that, except I have a thing called a "personality." I also have these things called "ideas." The Army takes pleasure in dismembering these things I have.
I have a dream. It is a simple dream. Really, all I want to do with my life (since it is abundantly clear that my dream to win a lot of money and coach little league and build houses and churches and read and shit will never happen) is to get a handgun or a sword or something I can bludgeon with, a horse and some leather clothes and just sort of roam. Adventures. Fires. Cookouts. Stars. Quiet. Beard. Good times. Noodle salad. One word sentences.
I have another dream. It involves JESSICA BIEL, Kiera Knightly, Claire Danes and Kate Beckinsale. It's pretty much the same dream except completely different. But every once in a while it does involve a horse.
I have a third dream. This dream involves me standing on a hill looking over a field of golden grain swaying in the breeze. I close my eyes and look at the sky. The new spring sun turns the black into red though my eye lids and I smile like I haven't seen the sun in a thousand years. I open my eyes and look across a blue sky and back to the field. The field ignites in a raging blaze with little smoke. I then ride through it on a horse. I've had that dream since I was seven.
What's up with all the horses in my dreams?
Why does no one partake in my advice column anymore? That's bullshit. I ran the best advice column in the world. And none of you fucks want advice. I mean sure I'm about to not have a job in 11 months, but I can still fix yours. It's only mine I have a knack for fucking up. Yours I can fix in a heartbeat. But fuck you because you don't want my advice. So that's my advice I guess: Fuck You. (Not you. You are different. I like You. Really)

Half A Harvest Moon

Right. I am told that the path to hell is paved with good intentions. At this stage in my life I look at things and am unsure as to if it is the goodness of the intentions or the length of time staying on the path that is the reason hell is ever reached. Read into that what you want.
I am tired. Not only am I tired in the physical sense, but also emotionally and of happenings. There are things I would like to tell you I am tired of, but I am afraid that the proverbial "they" have placed wire taps in my phone, computer, lighting fixtures, the Burger King drive through, my microwave, the bathroom and the microphone I use to sing to the world. "They" have also placed video cameras in my car and near my toilet paper. Joe Strummer would not have taken this shit. He would have used the microphone to sing to his toilet paper a song of freedom and love and meant it. I find my beliefs are bought and sold daily never letting me pen a clear and rightous song.
I want you infinite.
I've never been hungry enough to kill.
I, and this is me speaking from my heart, would like to build a time machine and take you with me. I would like for us to travel to February 12th 1945. I would like to take you to a dance club in Dresden, Germany. I would like to imbibe viscious amounts of whisky with you and dance with you for three days under a disco ball while the allies bomb everything around us. I would like that to do that with you. I would like that because it would be a literal manifestation of what you and I are doing now.
Would one vote of no confidence make a difference? What if you were voting on where you and your friends were to eat lunch next Saturday?
I am now fairly certain that you were right about him being the anti-christ.
A very nice kid once lived here. That kid is now a bitter kid who thinks he is an old man. He is not old. But he is bitter. If you were half right about what you think you are, you'd feel pretty good about yourself. When he sees you again he needs your help finding the nice kid. He will ask for your assistance in burning down an abandoned building. You and he will watch it burn. He will be hoping that that building is everything in him burning fucking down to a cinder.