Twelve kinds of luxury

Free cigarettes from Bangkok, an electric blanket, some cushions, Chuck E Weiss, a brand new plastic comb and a glass of water. That's twelve kinds of luxury right there. I am against the colour orange, dirt orange, brown orange, earth orange, tree orange. I'm banning orange for the foreseeable future. Orange caught me with my gloves down, that was a boxing analogy.

Last night I saw Colonel Funtastico at The Empire Hotel. I wanted, very badly, to ask him to change his name from colonel to captain. There was a cowgirl with a particularly pink nipple, it might have been the stage lights but I'm not sure. I wasn't supposed to be able to see the nipple, it escaped without warning, let's be clear about what kind of cowgirl she was, it was the outer space kind and not the stripper kind, those being the two main types of cowgirl.

I am thinking about The Crossroads Pact, or was it a challenge? I am unsure. Last night after the hats, nipple, colonel and Benito Superman and I ate unsatisfactory cake at an unsatisfactory cafe. I was tempted, for a moment, in defiance of having had a marvellous time to draw to me all that glittering dark and sink somewhere below the ice but is difficult to be ridiculous with Superman. He has many anti-ridiculous qualities, this does not inhibit the spaz, let us also be clear about that.