I’ve been sitting in a dirty, rat-infested hell hole on the back side of bum fuck Cambodia pimping out elementary school gym school teachers to visitng Russian businessmen just to get by.

Now I’m freezing my ass off in fuck-stain middle of nowhere Ostrov Shumshu because some Russian got me drunk enough to think I should invest in an damn oil company.

You every been cold, Socrates? So cold that you forget you have feet? Well, mother fucker, I did and I just lost three fucking toes! from frostbite. On top of that, the heat went out in my bitch’s building and I lost all the sluts in my 10-whore harem to hypothermia.

Add to that, the fucker never told me that we could pump oil all day long but we had no fucking way of getting it off the island. We’ve got a howitzer and I’m stuck trying to shoot down a plane in the hopes that they’ll send a rescue ship.

At least I have intenet porn.

Other than that, things are going swimmingly and it’s great to find you up to your old hijinks.

You owe me, bitch.

But Chippy? That’s a possibilty. A) She hasn’t been seen or heard from in about a month. B) I never sent her a check for that last article she wrote. C) I never sent her a check for most of the ones before that. So she might be more than smitten with me, she might be Fatal Attraction level smitten.

The question, then, is this. Just how good is Chippy at guerilla warfare? I know she’s a terror with a hockey stick in hand or, for that matter, a beer bottle but what happens when you get her in the foothills and forests of the New Hampshire wilderness?

Now I’m even more scared.

P.S. “…severe paranoia derived from an over-indulgence in narcotics and too many horror movies.” Heh. Heh heh. Good joke, OZ.