Old institutional bed. Previous owner was a ward of the state. Complete with disconcerting mattress stain that is most likely urorectal in nature. We hope.
A rare and wonderful find. It's not every day that you find a book written by a madman. Well, okay, so it is every day. But it's not every day that you find a book written by a madman who thinks that he's the second coming of Christ.
God's last book may have been a best seller but I found it slow, preachy, internally inconsistent, full of flat characters, and utterly devoid of plot. Now he's trying to cash in on that Da Vinci Code crap, which is just sad. Five years too late, God. Nobody cares anymore. Try writing more than one book every thirteen billion years, you hack.
This photo was mailed to Federal Police officials by suspected members of the Tijuana cartel. Twenty-four hours later, Dora's backpack was found in an abandoned car on the Mexican-US border. It contained the severed head of Dora's pet monkey, with a live hand grenade in his mouth. Two DEA agents lost their lives.
What tragedy left this masterwork unfinished? Did the artist's muse flee his touch? Did the vagaries of life and time conspire to rob him of this, his magnum opus? Did he flip his IROC-Z over a guard rail at 80mph while buzzing on Steel Reserve? The world may never know. No doubt this now hangs above the mantle of some aficionado of fine art, to be regarded in silence as he sips brandy and contemplates the meaning of "What do you want? What do you want? I want rock 'n roll, yes I do."
So you're rummaging through a bin of old crap and you find this perfectly preserved specimen of fucking junk mail and the first thing you think is "That'll be a buck forty-nine." If that describes you, you are a monster.