Like my new uranium? Depleted it m'self.

A fried egg sandwich with the face of Clay Shaw trapped in the batter in my hand, I step outside my front door to watch the war profiteers. I have never seen an occupation before. It looks a bit like a parade, except the floats all pretty much look exactly alike. Most of them a bit spattered with the little craters bullets leave on thick metal. Open for business. Come on ina my house, I can make sandwiches that you'll want to get on your camera phone to ee-bay. The hard fists of God clenched and severed, pickled in piss. The label on the jar reads "executive order 37". The ingredients read: "a marginal income tax rate of 15%" "a free tariff zone" "a new trade bank headed by jp morgan and co." A band is playing on a flatbed truck in the backyard of the frat house across the street; they are called "The Redundant Apostrophes". Their instruments explode in their grips, and the crowd is dumbfounded. I clear my throat in the silence and expectorate.

"Bechtel", I sound out, and sail my new hot vote onto the sand.