Rock music isn’t dead yet, but it’s about to be brutally murdered by whoever the hell these people are. Where did they come from? Where are they going? What do they want? The world may never know, but I’m pretty sure they came here for one thing. To rock your socks off — and to advertise some sort of hair-care product. Damn that hair looks silky.
Cooking is more than just pressing buttons on your microwave and allowing the gods of ready-made-meals to make all of your problems disappear, cooking is an art form. It takes hours, maybe even minutes, of hard work and dedication to cook a succulent meal. Entire relationships can be made or broken by your ability to cook.
You can even save your own life someday by knowing how to cook. All that dry pasta in your pantry can be used for a lot more than pasta art. Someday, you might have to boil that pasta. After that, you might even have to eat it. I don’t know if you’ll be ready for that if you forget about the importance of cooking.
(Warning: some salty Australian language)
Way out West there was this fella — fella I wanna tell ya about. Fella by the name of Ozzy Man. At least that was the handle his loving parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. Ozzy Man, he called himself Ozzy Man. Now, Ozzy Man — he didn’t make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about where he lived, likewise.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I remember those innocent years fondly. George Bush was president, gas cost about $2.50 a gallon, and Bud Light was still considered potable. The only riots we had were over sports championships, Capri Sun shortages, and the proper way to wear a golf visor. I killed a man with a soup spoon and a small package of flavoring that I got out of a box of ramen noodles because he insisted on wearing his visor upside-down and backwards. I regret nothing.