Aww, man, I tell ya it ain’t but tuff out there for a kid like me. Seriously, whether it’s granpa belly-bitchin’ ’bout them cornhogs he calls feet or that bacon-faced teach’s twisted ideas on the sex, I gotta tell ya, it’s hard for a guy like me. I mean, lookit, I get it awright and all that the world ain’t no smaller and less comlicated than a mechaniacal goose is. I seen one of them up at the circus before and I couln’t start to tell you what all them gears and greases and electric honkers was for. And that ain’t even close to the whole world and all at all. But still, c’mon, just for one second couln’t these wrinkled gut-buckets who says they’s in charge of things just for one second lookit from my ‘spective for even one second? Yeah, sure, priorities or whatever the frick they’re called. I get that. Things are important. Uh huh. I know ’cause I got them importants too y’know. Like strokin’ Mary Peters. That’s what I’m thinking ’bout most of the time. And Thurby Newter’s go-cart. Them rides don’t wrangle themelfs and that takes up a lotta my brainspace, right? I could give a sticky nugget ’bout the price of frickin’ lotion. If I could I’d rub them on, y’know, make them their own frickin’ lotion. How’d they like that? I ain’t own no stocks and I don’t care bought the politics and the behaviours and the stuff like that. I pick my nose ’cause it needs to be picked is all. So get off my back. Whatdya expect me to quit the kid business and get a job sipping tea and spanking babies? Get real, mango, I wouldn’t wanna if I even knew how. All I’m about is getting under Mary Peters’s pink unders and go carting and nose turds and putting crud on dead gunk. Is all. Whatdya think? I was the high king of the special guys or something. Geesh. Get real.