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What I was wearing could best be described as the opposite of a tuxedo.
We were all in John’s black Jeep Grand Cherokee, the hood of which was entirely covered by an airbrushed mural of Satan holding an ax, chopping the head off of a naked woman above the words EZEKIEL 23:20. The paint job wasn’t John’s work—the Jeep had come from the cops’ impound lot and they wouldn’t tell us anything about the previous owner, only that he was “Never, ever coming back.”
Hey, I was thinking about the argument we had yesterday, and having slept on it I’ve decided that you are even more wrong than I thought you were then.”
No matter who you are or where you’re from, we can all look upon the raw, energetic creations of children and agree that they are very shitty artists.
The guy took a drag off his cigarette and said, “Congratulations on following a series of groaningly obvious clues. When you enter a room, do you see little equations flying around in front of your eyes?”
The cannon’s payload was not, in fact, a T-shirt. It contained the Shroud of Turin—the legendary piece of cloth that the body of Christ was wrapped in after crucifixion.
