Why Write A Song When

And I'll Have You Know That If You Hurt My Son Again, If He So Much As Sighs Sadly Over His Coffee, I Will Hire A Man, A Russian, Probably, To Hunt You Down And Rip All That Shiny Black Hair From Your Head, Then Break Your Skinny Arms And Legs, And Set You On Fire, And Then Put You Out With A Hammer. And Should There Be Children From Your Beastly Rutting, I Shall Have The Russian Man Cut Them To Tiny Pieces And Feed Them To Madame Jacob's Dog. Because, Although He May Be Only A Worthless, Simpleminded, Libertine Artist, Lucien Is My Favorite, And I Will Not Have Him Hurt. Do You Understand?

Ooo Ahe-e, I Aya Oa A," She Said In Yawnspeak, A Language - Not Unlike Hawaiian - Known For Its Paucity Of Consonants.

Well They're Pissed Off And They're Hungry. I Was Kind Of Busy Trying Not To Get My Brains Eaten. They Seemed Pretty Adamant About The Brain-eating Thing. Then They're Going To Ikea, I Guess

I Wanted A Trumpet Concerto That Reflected Native American Music Because, Well, There Aren't Any. I Looked Around For One But Couldn't Find Anything. So It's A Wide-open Field.

Angels Are Just Pretty Insects.