I can't explain. I don't think anyone could. I was compelled to own a flavor ice machine. A slush maker, in vulgar terms. I had to make flavored ice, to be drunk, to be enjoyed, to be envied and to be resented.
And I did.
Right here on this patio, Ron. I made the slush water here, with your wife. And your boy.
And I colored it orange.
This horrible Gypsy fortune consists of forgotten shoes and half-finished letters of intent.
I want my donkeys back!
These assholes don't know how to write for Gonzo…
Samson loved fish.
But he hated men.
He built this place to honor fish. And he painted it red.
But society hated Samson. And they hated fish.
Society painted this place gray.
And they painted Samson gray.
He just stood there while they worked on him with the fine tip brush.
And now…we don't have no fish.
