Bullshit! you say? You may be right, but I think you're wrong. I, and Larry-of-the-smashed-head, and Detective Kennedy Whelan, still looking through the ether for murder, and Phyllis Pellaprat, who sheds her clothes and her skin with equal enthusiasm and effect, and my teasingly seductive cousin, Stacey (who may or may not, at this point, be on one side or the other of this universe), and the billions who have come and gone, or will eventually come and go, think you're as wrong as a right-hand turn on a left-hand curve. I had a dark beer once that made me sick. I'm still enjoying it, and I'm still getting sick from it. That's what existence is for, you know, and that's what it's all about, continuous enjoyment and regret. You didn't realize that? Where have you been all your corporeal life—dreaming of heaven? Here's what Larry-of-the-smashed-head said about heaven: "It's like expecting the Queen of England to wear a thong during a croquet match." It's all I could get out of him on the subject.
