I'm called Burnwood because in the middle of a conversation I will forget what I'm saying at the sight of a shiny object. It takes a mighty big locomotive to pull that train of thought back to Grand Cerebral Station. Even my friends who've never finsihed high school and couldn't tell you what the fuck 'cerebral' means find themselves in a position of superiority over me when I leave my car running all night out in the parking lot. Rotten gloating bastards...
If there were ever a mutant child to be made from stringing strands of DNA together, my pick would be one made from Les Claypool, Fieldy Arvizu and an aardvark. Then we could all enjoy apopolectic new renditions of Electric Uncle Sam with subtle Porno Creep overtones whilst snacking on fire ants. A new master race is born...
Thanks to Jan, Jonathan, and Adam for amusing me while I'm online. Sure, nothing gets done HERE but at least I have a chance to laugh until my bladder releases. Great fun.
