I'm recovering from death surgery. Soon to be a worldwide fad. I'm sure of it.
I'm here to see the eye doctor. His name is Butch. He used to wrestle wild boars and ride broncos in the arena. Maybe fought some Christians too, at least the more aggressive or foolhardy ones, but it didn't pay as well as doing eye surgery and his hands got too callused - doing needlepoint in his free time between hog wrestles and swordplay became a frustrating exercise in crudity, so here I am and here he is. Just for old-times' sake he challenges me to best-of-three arm wrestling, then we knock back a few beers and chase the cat around the office. It's a Siberian tiger, so some days it chases him. After that it's lunch, watch a movie, and maybe take a nap or engage in a bit of light gardening. Then I get a new set of eyeballs and I'm on my way again - all set for another six months. Mom likes him too, and you can't say that about just anybody, so I feel pretty lucky.
Cosmic surgery. Vast and half-vast. Take your pick.
Cleptomania Tootleprong's Bug Walking Service. Recently seen on a leaf (underside only).
I also own an out-of-body shop. (True!)
