"From Whose Bourne No Traveler Returns"

I think you may have some serious misconceptions about me. Naturally, people think "angel of death" and their minds fill with a bountiful harvest of cold dry air, skulls, dreary black cloaks, and bullshit. Well, I am here to attest that the only time I wear a big black cloak is after I fucked your mom. Just kidding. What I'm really trying to say is that I don't wear dreary black cloaks or play chess with pretentious Scandinavians on some beach with a swirl of myst about me. I am your only garuntee. And guess what? I garuntee a really good fucking time. How good, you ask? Think about Poison videos from the 80's (provided you can look back that far without all that Nevermind shit clouding your real judgement), and multiply that by 75. Then imagine impervious flights between mountaintops, fired by several lines of really fucking good cocaine. While your are spiraling carefree through the air, attempt your favorite yo-yo tricks in weaponlike fashion much like the heroic character in the old Nintendo game, GOONIES II. If you like women or men or anything else, think that they'll be really impressed by your actions, and overwhelmingly excited to watch "Raiders of the Lost Ark" with you. You may dive drill-like through whatever groundcover that may exist, but when you come to below, you will notice yourself in a landscape of florescent green at the foot of high mountaintops, with many midgets doing continual backflips. Very close by said midgets will be a remarkably charming Black homosexual Irish cleric. An arrangement of tables and chairs will be meticulously laid out in a circular pattern, with large pewter Goblets full of Absynthe. Elvis Presley and Janice Joplin will be performing a soaringly energetic version of "Take Me Home Country Roads". Seated will be all the smiles you ever knew, from every time and every face, with every lie removed. Amidst the center of this circle, I will dwell. You will sit and watch me whittle with your grandfather's knife a perfectly majestic Canadian Goose, which will explode into life and shit comically on someone in the crowd (who happens alot like Warrick Davis) much to everyones explosive delight. At which time, we shall have a pushup contest. Don't really worry about this. It's only a formality. An oppurtunity for me to whisper to you at every "DOWN" count, that its all really ok. That you didn't live for nothing, that your every exhale is still spinning the earth, and that pancakes need not be the width of a mil-spec parachute in order to properly hold blueberries. My gift to you will be an inate ability to dance a perfect tango, which you will show to the gathering with a perfect partner.

And this is only the introduction, get my drift?