There was always a ghost in your taint. I saw him leering. His eyes bulged from the precipice of lightning and his sheets were twin zambonis. How could we have known the truth? Our sailors were too bright at sea, the KY not really even good enough. When we tried Astroglide our tears fell off, fed his ghostly visage. I fear he will poke a hole in the condom and make a ghost baby come out of you. GODDAMN THIS WORLD! GODDAMN MY HORRIBLE FIGURINES!
Aristotle Pottotle is made out of clay. He lives in San Francisco behind a man playing a flamenco guitar on Mission Street. He thinks you knew that already, though.