"Hey, is your mag open to submissions?"
I run a daily unless the voices tell me not to because they want to party.
"The mag is only open to cuddling and long walks on the beach and quickies behind the dumpster behind Wal-Mart at the moment and donations to my charity: Tip The Strippers Handsomely In Hopes To Get Free Pole Dancing Lessons....”
The lost little writer learned the Mad Editor title was far from just a title.
Then instantly regretted attaching their phone number with their submission. Which is borderline stupid when dealing with someone who hasn't slept in six years.
Crossing my fingers to set the Guinness record.
Sometimes I wish I had followed my dreams and become a serial killer, instead, or a bus driver for invisible people.
JPR is the greatest human residing on his personal island off the coast of Jupiter, Spain. It is a real place in his nonexistent heart.
He likes drawing tits on random sleeping persons' foreheads and calling in bomb threats to Taco Bell.
He once was a roadie for Willie Nelson, so of course he was swimming in the pussy…
He uses humor to mask the fact he hates humanity but likes for people who fear he will want to meet them someday.
He once painted by number. Now, he paints outside the box which has earned him a lifetime ban from Michael’s art supply franchise because they do not support his genius. Much like you reading this.
He hosts an open mic at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean every Saturday night.
He also collects drugs to keep the streets safe where there are no sidewalks.
I like you, I don't care what your friends say about you. You're kinda okay.
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