I left four hobos under a bridge that was decorated with graffiti depicting an elephant engaging in a cage match with a cucumber and an android cell phone, and suddenly realized that I had left my necklace made of diamond shavings and the aspirations of young Latino woman that have narrowly escaped the summons sent by several government agencies looking for free phone books, back at Jozingo's place up in Queens. "Well, so much for burning trash cans full of sexually assaulted fruit cups with Hardliner." I thought to myself. What a simple life I live. Damn obligations. So, I jogged back up to my car, a flashy 1972 Dodson. This thing had been through quite a bit. I remember I saved this hunk a junk from a man in his late 70's threatening to trash the thing with a 5 gallon bucket of pebbles and music from a modern day viking clan praising the policies of Ronald Reagan and engaging in raccoon orgy's. Anyway, I saved her by throwing a marble figure of a monkey writing a narrative essay on the physical properties of bats while impregnated at his frontal lobe. Luckily I was able to conk this rash human being with an unusually tense passion for fashion week into a dream-like state, to, which I know, has persisted to this day. I try not to live in the past-I don't want to talk about it. Now I'm driving down the 99, ahh. The days. As I pull in to Jozingo's, I hear the faint crunch that can only be one thing. Milk cartons left over from our annual sunbathing party that left 4 dead last year. Fuckin' cars. Boy, driveways are comfortable in the summer. If you drink leopard milk during bathing, it enhances hair growth and sperm production, which is superb for spring mating. As I waltz up to the palace known for it's massive vulgarian beasts covered in numerous back tattoos of angels with wings that have been soaked in deer semen and have been treated with a mahogany finish, I meet with Jozingo. He is happy to see me, as I him. He is dressed in a quilt, wrapped with the imagination of a thousand Yemeni immigrants that have been deprived decent bathing shampoo for almost 2 years. He shouts to me: "Bob! You, my dearest, have been missing out on a little thing called life." "But Jozing, I have just returned from the depths of a boutique that exclusively sells Brazilian rat skins adorned with Donald Trump's face plastered over every paw, and you tell me I am not living, why you dear sir, have been drastically mistaken." "Ah I see. Here, let me abscond from this palace, take me, with you, in your machine with four wheels, and show me the forbidden colors of life." And off we went, in search of more colors, ones previously not accepted.