Gr8 b8, m8. I rel8, str8 appreci8, and congratul8. I r8 this b8 an 8/8. Plz no h8, I’m str8 ir8. Cre8 more, can’t w8. We should convers8, I won’t ber8, my number is 8888888, ask for N8. No calls l8 or out of st8. If on a d8, ask K8 to loc8. Even with a full pl8, I always have time to communic8 so don’t hesit8.

˙ʇı ןןɐɔ noʎ ɹǝʌǝʇɐɥʍ ɹo ,ɐʇǝq, pǝɹǝpısuoɔ buıǝq ɟo ʞɔıs ɯ,ı ˙ʇı ʇnoqɐ ʎɹɔ oʇ ǝɯ oʇ ʞןɐʇ ʎןuo puɐ ‘ʇıɥs ǝʞıן ɯǝɥʇ ʇɐǝɹʇ oɥʍ sʎnb bɐqǝɥɔnop ɹǝʇɟɐ ob sʎɐʍןɐ sןɹıb ǝsǝɥʇ puǝ ǝɥʇ uı ˙ʎpɐן,ɯ ɹoɟ buıɥʇʎuɐ op pןnoʍ puɐ ‘qoظ ǝɔıu ɐ ʞɹoʍ ‘ʎnb ǝɔıu ɐ ɯ,ı ˙ǝuoz puǝıɹɟ ǝɥʇ uı ʇnd buıǝq sʎɐʍןɐ ı ɯɐ ʎɥʍ

Whenever I get a package of plain M&Ms, I make it my duty to continue the strength and robustness of the candy as a species. To this end, I hold M&M duels. Taking two candies between my thumb and forefinger, I apply pressure, squeezing them together until one of them cracks and splinters. That is the “loser,” and I eat the inferior one immediately. The winner gets to go another round. I have found that, in general, the brown and red M&Ms are tougher, and the newer blue ones are genetically inferior. I have hypothesized that the blue M&Ms as a race cannot survive long in the intense theater of competition that is the modern candy and snack-food world. Occasionally I will get a mutation, a candy that is misshapen, or pointier, or flatter than the rest. Almost invariably this proves to be a weakness, but on very rare occasions it gives the candy extra strength. In this way, the species continues to adapt to its environment. When I reach the end of the pack, I am left with one M&M, the strongest of the herd. Since it would make no sense to eat this one as well, I pack it neatly in an envelope and send it to M&M Mars, A Division of Mars, Inc., Hackettstown, NJ 17840-1503 U.S.A., along with a 3×5 card reading, “Please use this M&M for breeding purposes.” This week they wrote back to thank me, and sent me a coupon for a free 1/2 pound bag of plain M&Ms. I consider this “grant money.” I have set aside the weekend for a grand tournament. From a field of hundreds, we will discover the True Champion. There can be only one.

I sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter. Ever since I was a boy I dreamed of soaring over the oilfields dropping hot sticky loads on disgusting foreigners. People say to me that a person being a helicopter is Impossible and I’m fucking retarded but I don’t care, I’m beautiful. I’m having a plastic surgeon install rotary blades, 30 mm cannons and AMG-114 Hellfire missiles on my body. From now on I want you guys to call me “Apache” and respect my right to kill from above and kill needlessly. If you can’t accept me you’re a heliphobe and need to check your vehicle privilege. Thank you for being so understanding.