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CLIFF YABLONSKI HATES THESE PEOPLE:

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I HATE YOU PAGE 220

This guy's dead and buried behind my toolshed. Do you know how I killed him? I don't fucking remember, so if you can refresh my mind then send me a computer message to my computer screen and make it quick because I'm going to make a tombstone for him just so I can piss all over it.

Another freak factory falls into my Correctional Closet. I swear, ever since I built that think, I've been catching the biggest wads of dirt this side of the Pecos. It took me a while to figure out how to builf my Correctional Closet because the blueprints I wrote up were just drawings of what looks like an eagle and a rock with moss on fire, so I had to improvise a little bit. For example, instead of plywood, I used barbed wire. Instead of a ceiling, I put a bunch of glue on some hay that fell off the back of a dairy truck last November.

Spanky Seigal tastes what he thought was coffee but was actually a cup full of Cliff's Coffee, a secret blend of spices and coffee beans and automotive fluids. My recipe is a secret though so I'm not going to tell you fish-shoveling groutclowns the secret because you'll just write it all over the Interweb and you'll try to steal my ideas like the time Gary Frewer stole my idea about the lamp on wheels and he patented it before I had a chance to. When I found out, I stormed over to Gary's house and drove my car into his tree to warn him about what happens when you try to put the scam over old Cliff's eyes. It turned out that I had the wrong house, but I called up Gary on the phone and told him to go over to the other house and look at that tree because he's next.

After a little deconstructive jaw surgery, Francis Erkelman retreats to his janitorial closet so he can jack off to Rotting Fruit Magazine Monthly. I hate magazines, all the magazines these days have color pictures and I can't stand color pictures because they make my eyes go all crazy and start watering like a Mexican whore. That's why I only go to the grocery store at night, usually when they're closed.

The maid service in East Appleton is severly lacking, as you can tell by this mule that somebody crammed into a burlap sack of black lace. I got a maid once but after the first time she came over, she refused to come back again because I know she just couldn't resist my charm and manliness. She said it was because I had too many dead things in my house that she didn't want to get near, but that's a goddamn excuse that anybody with two fingers can see through, so don't believe her. I think her name was "Edna" but I can't remember her last name. I think it rhymed with the word "berry."

Roofgeek wakes up after a long night of solving crimes and producing substances which adhere his blanket to the roof. See that bottle of whiskey in his left hand? He fucking stole that from me when I was stuck in the cabinet underneath the sink.