We will always party hard.

Stop with the emails.

There are those who say I stray dangerously close to the fuzzy, shifting borders of good taste. Some even say I do it deliberately, an accusation which grates against my refined sensibilities and gentlemanly deportment like sandpaper against a misbehaving child’s forearms.

After all, if I’m anything, I’m a gentleman.


Paul did not murder a prostitute when we were in Las Vegas.

Now, I admit there’s a whole lot of the Vegas trip that isn’t all that… clear. A lot of my memories… they’re like half-demagnetized betamax tapes. Still, I don’t feel like I’m going out on too thin a limb when I say that Paul for sure did not murder a hooker.

I’m almost positive she was just some teenage runaway.

I’m moderately positive she was a he.

Oh Hot Sauce, you silly bastard.



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