Thursday, July 08, 2004


Raven is lying on his back on the table with his tiny feet in the air.

What’s going on, guy? Are you sick?

“I’m fantasizing.”

Should I ask what about? Or are these fantasies that I shouldn’t know about?

“No. They’re pretty harmless, actually. The first one is about quesadillas with sautéed onions and habanero chiles. You could probably even make that into a reality, if you wanted to. The second is about ‘Kenny Boy’, Bush’s energy gangster buddy, rotting in jail.”

Do you really think he’ll be rotting? I don’t think so. They always put the high-roller crooks in very cushy country club-type prisons. If Kenny Boy does get popped into the slammer, he’ll be teeing off every morning at 11 somewhere in Connecticut.

“I told you it was a fantasy. But wouldn’t it be great to see the Bush Gang’s house of cards start checking in behind bars?”

Of course it would. I’ll get right on those quesadillas. Geez, I sound like Martha Stewart—another potential jailbird—oops, sorry, Rave.

“You’ll be forgiven if you add some sliced avocadoes.”

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