uuuuhhhh

I'm a cop on the fucking edge here, people. Good damn thing I do not have a gun. Nobody would be safe. How can I come down off this angry adrenaline high?

Meditate upon this, friends:



Yes. B. George. In the cafe. At my work. Perhaps out of the frame is a muffin of some kind? Chocolate chunk, mayhaps? Methinks the Boy likes a muffin.

The ONLY thing that could make this picture any better would be if I were in the background, holding a mystical sphere a la Jareth The Goblin King in Labyrinth, slowly and hypnotically swiveling it around my long, elegantly gloved hands... quietly gazing you in the eye and convincing you that my high-waisted leggings WERE the best choice for the job at hand. Then we would away to the masquerade, where I would have my way with you against a backdrop of weeping unicorns... AGAIN. Ahhh haHAhaHHHAAAAhahaha!

and... OH MY DEAR SWEET LORD:



As if the Goblin King's tender bits have not undergone enough 'enhancement' now we have THIS??? It looks like the lower half of a velociraptor. And what's with the club feet? Bowie has dainty feet, you goons! Not these fucking trotters!

Sigh. Can nothing be done PROPERLY around here without me?

Guess not. I mean, look what effing SPADERMAN gets up to when I'm not there to hold that shit together:




Sloppy ass mofo. And Muggins here has to pick up the fucking pieces.