Palm Sunday (Delacorte Press, 1981) is an autobiographical pastiche of speeches, memoirs and essays by Kurt Vonnegut (the Hoosier author formerly known as Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. before being promoted to singularity by the death of his father). The collection includes a piece entitled "Self-Interview" originally published in The Paris Review (No. 69, 1977).

The idea of interviewing oneself instantly struck me as pretentious in the extreme, though Vonnegut did include one bit of mullable rationale in his preamble:

Writers are unlucky speakers, by and large, which accounts for them being in a profession which encourages them to stay at their desks for years, if necessary, pondering what to say next and how best to say it.

Good point, Kurt. And since this slowly turning diary pinwheel of autobiographical typing has become my own kind of poor man's self-posted Palm Sunday-type anthology, I think it's only natural that I take my turn.

(There's no use waiting for the people from The Paris Review to interview me. This is just a bubble in the Scooposphere, four inches wide. Nobody cares but us chickens.)

However, I will depart from Vonnegut's approach in at least two significant ways: firstly, I plan to be somewhat harder on myself than Vonnegut was on himself; and secondly, I will make absolutely no mention of the firebombing of Dresden. Even if you twist my arm.

Finally, no attempt has been made to structure this interview, despite the journalistic advice of three out of four leading websites. Since this isn't a story from life, I for once have no idea where it's headed as I sit here typing. And I think, if the interview is to be at all honest, I should bar myself from editing the text afterward. Armchair psychology buffs ready your buckets: here comes my stream.

It'll go where it goes, and I apologize in advance if it seems to go nowhere. You've been warned.

To wit, to wank:

A CONVERSATION WITH CHEESEBURGERBROWN
by Matthew Frederick Davis Hemming
October 2004
I almost drive past the old schoolhouse where Brown makes his home. It's a cool autumn day, and with the rain coming down I have my windows up; with only blurs of red and yellow trees for a cue it is hard to judge my speed. The patchy woods and bush open up on either side and I suddenly see a church to my right and a general store to my left. I hit the brakes hard and back up: shadowed from the general store by a long wooden fence is a small brick schoolhouse with a modest steeple and a smattering of semi-dilapidated exterior woodwork. Carved over the front door are the numerals "1895."

"The place was built in 1897, actually," says Brown, tracing my gaze as he walks down the concrete steps from the porch. "That's a type-o."

He invites me inside to his "laboratorium" -- a small office on the front of the house with a storefront-style window and a lazily turning fan hanging from the ceiling. An L-shaped glass desk supports an array of LCD, CRT and NTSC monitors. I count four keyboards, two mice and one large drawing tablet. A small chalkboard is covered in nearly illegible timecode notes and telephone numbers. At the centre of it all is a burgundy leather office chair, its edges shredded by cat claws. This is where Brown sits, gesturing at me to take the chair from the drafting table opposite his desk.

Brown looks amused, though tired. He smirks but the bags beneath his eyes are discoloured. A sparse, unkempt beard sets a tone of carelessness that is consistent across his wardrobe: plain, somewhat stained cotton in subdued tones, scruffy and worn at the edges -- a T-shirt, a pair of slacks, sneakers. His dark hair is cut short, lying flat against his scalp. His body language is self-effacing, drifting and restless until he settles into a satisfying position in his chair.

As he speaks he becomes more animated, gesturing broadly, his face contorting cartoonishly when he feels emphasis is required. At several points during our conversation he furrows his brow and begins systematically patting down his pockets, stuck in mid-thought like Columbo hovering in a doorway. "I quit smoking three years ago," he explains sheepishly. "...What was I saying?"

MFDH: Tell us a little bit about yourself.

CBB: That's a pretty daunting question.

MFDH: A little bit about your education, then. I understand you studied art.

CBB: Well, practice more than study, really.

MFDH: I don't follow you.

CBB: That was me trying to be funny. It's a line stolen from William Goldman, from The Princess Bride. It references my failure to take very seriously the idea of reading about historical works, my habit of playing my own games instead. So it perhaps more fair to say that I "produced bad art under supervision" than it is to say that I've "studied" the field in any real, systematic way.

MFDH: Is there a "real, systematic" way to study art?

CBB: Sure. You refine your own abilities by perfecting the fundamentals of your craft and then building on them in ever expanding circles of professional competence, intricacy and sophistication. In parallel you spend years reading about all of the art that's ever happened before -- the hoary masters, the stylish fops, the predictable revolutionaries, the ill-mannered geniuses -- and then, when you're ready, you pick up where they left off.

MFDH: And where have the old masters left off?

CBB: Um, I think they're up to blank canvasses and invisible sculptures now. I'm not really sure. As I said, I jumped off that train. I didn't like where it was headed.

MFDH: Why do you say that?

CBB: As I progressed in art the field seemed to take on an increasingly claustrophobic and incestuous aura. As the sophistication of the work increases, the availability of an audience sufficiently literate in the medium to grasp the experience shrinks exponentially. What you ultimately end up with is a form of expression so refined and subtle that it can only be appreciated by other artists -- which, in my opinion, don't help nobody nohow.

MFDH: So there was a kind of ongoing rebellion against formalism in art?

CBB: I wouldn't say that. I have a lot of respect for formalism. I do think that kids who want to be artists should be made to paint colour wheels, and taught to rattle off the principles and elements of design. A solid underpinning in classical aesthetics is an essential foundation in any medium. That's certainly how I spent my Saturday afternoons as a child: painting bowls of fruit and learning terminology.

MFDH: Where was that?

CBB: At John Smith's School of Art. It was located over a drywall company in a skid of industria that bordered my neighbourhood, growing up. John was this old British ex-pat with a big white beard, and Olga was his brunette Ukrainian bride. They taught classes to help pay the rent between John's gallery exhibitions. They lived there, too. I hung around in that studio every Tuesday and Thursday night, and every Saturday afternoon. For eleven years.

MFDH: Whose idea was that?

CBB: My mother's, at first. My own, later.

MFDH: So you have in fact "studied" art.

CBB: I've been caught out being glib. Yeah, it's true. Prior to having my adolescent idealism cauterized I was actually pretty gung-ho about the idea of being an exhibiting artist when I grew up. I was an eager beaver, and I did all my lessons like a good little novice. I painted nudes and memorized the Windsor & Newton standard names for colours for John; I explored abstraction and hypnotic automation for Susan; I applied tinted glazes to finished commissions and listened to hours of passionate bullshit from Vince.

MFDH: These were your teachers?

CBB: Right. John Smith, whom I've mentioned. Susan Hale, the department head at the performing arts secondary school I went to. And I served as an apprentice to Vince Mancisi, who had once been an apprentice of Susan.

MFDH: Can you sum up a pearl of wisdom from each of those experiences?

CBB: Easily. John: "Get on with it!" Susan: "Those look like ninja turtles." Vince: "Your girl is always gonna be jealous of the hard-on you get for your work."

MFDH: Would you explain Susan's?

CBB: Reluctantly. She was the high priestess of uber-formal art. Her own work in the field was held -- by her, at any rate -- to be extremely personal, if inscrutable. She was very sensitive about her work. It was easy to make her cry or rage with an off-hand remark. Not that we taunted her at all. We always tried to walk on eggshells when she showcased her stuff for us.

MFDH: And?

CBB: We were assigned the task of coming up with a series of self-portraits. When we presented them she flew into a fit about how our work was shallow and without personal risk. She assigned us all double the number of drawings and sent us away again.

MFDH: Were you an eager beaver?

CBB: Oh yeah. I had one of those triple-strength teenage epiphanies and stayed up all night painting and making a mess. I was sure I'd made a breakthrough.

MFDH: Hale disagreed?

CBB: She did. She used the opportunity of my presentation to humiliate me, chiefly by belittling my work and comparing it to various strains of visual trash. She then moved on to a series of vitriolic personal comments -- you know, the sort of rant where everyone else in the room is paralyzed with embarrassment, having no idea how to respond or where to look. When two people have a confrontation like that everyone else become non-participants, and a funny kind of theatre happens.

MFDH: Starring you and Susan?

CBB: Right. We had a duel. On one level, I lost. I was squarely defeated and made to look foolish. On another level, however, Susan lost because the class never quite recovered from their shock at her cruelty.

MFDH: What do you think is the lesson in that experience?

CBB: I don't know. There are probably a lot of lessons. All I know is that whenever I think of Susan Hale the first thing that pops in my head is her scoffing that one of my self-portraits looked like a "ninja turtle." It was a moment of double surprise, you see, not only on account of her hypocrisy about the sanctity of personal explorations but also because I was genuinely impressed that she could make a pop cultural reference like that. Who would've dreamed that Miss Hale knew about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?

MFDH: You're being glib again.

CBB: It's a defensive mechanism, please excuse me.

MFDH: Did you ever strike back at Susan?

CBB: Oh sure, but that's another story and might be told another time.

MFDH: You can't get away with that here. What happened?

CBB: Well, she really got my goat. I tasted puke when I thought about it. Though I never raised my voice or cried, I've seldom been so upset in all my life.

MFDH: You're deflecting. What did you do to get even?

CBB: She was powerful, and there wasn't much I could do to hurt her. I did set her up to hurt herself, however, which worked out okay. She shot her mouth off in front of the wrong people -- school board people -- and therefore ended up barred from teaching senior grades...she was shucked back to teaching kids in grade nine how to hold a pencil properly. She came as close to a professional reprimand as the unions would allow.

MFDH: That seems a pretty thorough thrashing of an adult, coming from a teenager.

CBB: And we egged her house on Hallowe'en, too. Yeah, I guess it was a fairly sound bit of payback. But it wasn't very satisfying. That's why I ended up sending her that letter from Halifax, a couple of years later, worded to make her feel just fine about everything. I think I mention it in Attacking Space, Attacking Time.

MFDH: You felt guilty?

CBB: Yeah. But at the same time I wished I'd been able to take her down more than just the one peg. Mixed feelings, you know? Violence can be so refreshing, but I'm too aware of the fact that it doesn't solve much to really relish it.

MFDH: So you feel your response was violent?

CBB: Certainly. Susan emotionally lambasted me in front of my peers, so I stuck a knife in her career. How could you describe the events in more bloodless terms and still capture the intensity of the exchange?

MFDH: The moral of the story?

CBB: Frenzied idiots can be easily baited into sabotaging themselves. Setting up Susan was like shooting fish in a barrel. The corollary being, of course, that it isn't particularly satisfying to watch idiots hurt themselves because they lack the wits to really appreciate what's happened to them.

MFDH: Speaking of revenge, it happens to be the central theme of some of your earliest autobiographical postings in the Scooposphere. The Sweet Funk of Revenge comes to mind, as well as The Great Rock'n'Roll Swindle.

CBB: Revenge is a classic theme. It's an easy hook to hang your hat on, when you're writing a story. I mean, that's why I started writing The Sweet Funk of Revenge in the first place -- as a writing exercise, where I could focus on tone and style since the actual sequence of events and cast of characters were preordained by having really happened.

MFDH: Which brings up a point of some popular curiosity: how true are the true accounts of CheeseburgerBrown?

CBB: True enough.

MFDH: True enough for what?

CBB: True enough to be entertaining without sullying my own memories with lies.

MFDH: So where's the line? Is it fiction or biography first?

CBB: Biography, definitely. To discuss the quotient of fiction I think we should start with the most obvious level: they're stories. One of the principal differences between stories and real events is the comparative amount of detail -- to accommodate an event into a telling, we start by shedding ninety-nine percent of the detail. We pare away -- selectively. By showcasing one scene and not another, by distilling tedious conversations down to a single sentence of narrative, by skipping ahead in time...an event from life is whittled mercilessly, leaving a skeletal core of plot, dramatic exchanges and a sprinkling of true-life detail to make it smell right.

MFDH: So there are errors of omission.

CBB: There must be. Absolutely. As has been pointed out before, my stories are romances. You can't have a romance without omission. This is why none of the characters in Star Wars ever has to seek out the Death Star's toilet facilities -- heroes don't shit. But of course I'm not infinitely free to omit unpleasant or unexciting facts altogether, because it still has ring true with me. I mean, they're my memories and I'm writing them down to keep them preserved, not to carelessly warp them.

MFDH: What about errors of invention?

CBB: You mean just making shit up? Few and far between, minor tweaks to better serve the mechanical needs of the story. If you mean having to be creative to fill in where memory fails, frequently. But with the softest touch I can muster.

MFDH: The possibility has been raised of your having an eidetic -- or "photographic" -- memory. Is this true?

CBB: No. I do have an unusual memory, but it's by no means eidetic.

MFDH: What do you mean by unusual?

CBB: Nothing worthy of a book of records or anything. I just tend to memorize melodies, passages of speech and sequences of images with a thoroughness that some people have told me is unusual. Lots of bright people have good memories -- it's the easiest part of being bright. I can vividly remember my young childhood much more clearly than most people I've spoken with, and beginning further back.

MFDH: How far back can you remember?

CBB: My first reliably clear memory is of my family moving to Toronto when I was two years old. I remember all of my teachers at primary school. I remember every major present of each Christmas of childhood. I can peg events in my life to a calendar date very easily. That sort of thing. Nothing spectacular, but somewhat unusual.

MFDH: Where you aware of your memory being unusual as a child?

CBB: Yeah, actually. I stumbled across it by accident. I was at the library with my mom when I was seven and I wanted to take out a book on astronomy. She thought the particular book I'd chosen would be over my head, so she kept shoving alternatives at me along the lines of Baby's First Big Book of Space. You know -- shit with pop-up planets. Out of sheer pig-headedness I insisted on my first choice, and out of further pig-headedness I read the whole damn thing.

MFDH: Did you understand it?

CBB: Not a bloody word.

MFDH: Um.

CBB: However, a couple of years later I was given more age-appropriate astronomy book for my birthday. It had some cool pictures but I was disappointed by the lack of detail in the text, until...well, until I recalled the contents of the book I'd read before.

MFDH: The one you didn't understand?

CBB: Right. I didn't understand it, but all the words were still in there somewhere -- sitting in some dusty corner of my mind, waiting the other shoe to drop. When I started inputting the new, more accessible text I suddenly gained access to all of that stored data...and suddenly it all made sense. Presto!

MFDH: And so you realized you had an unusual mnemonic ability?

CBB: No, not then. I just thought it was cool to suddenly know something about the life-cycle of stars. I recognized that the ability might be unusual only when I told other kids about it and they didn't believe me.

MFDH: Did they make fun of you?

CBB: I don't recall. I simply stopped telling anyone about it. Credulity was not a requirement of my satisfaction -- being able to crack subject matter that was over my head was all that I cared about. The lesson was reinforced in middle school when I accidentally let it slip that I poopooed owning a Walkman in favour of just playing records over and over again until I'd memorized them, and then playing the music back to myself in my head. The real advantage is you never need new batteries, you see.

MFDH: The idea didn't go over well?

CBB: Nothing dramatic. My peers just said, "That's impossible." So, like so many others before me with odd quirks, I learned to just shut up about it. Who wants to be disbelieved?

MFDH: So is it your contention then that you use this ability to depict events more or less accurately?

CBB: Well, they're accurate with reference to my memory. I've been apprised of too many studies that demonstrate the fallibility of memory to believe that my personal version of events would match an objective record. Beyond whatever idiosyncratic point of view I may have had at the time, memories are distorted by recall, mixed in with other occasions, synthesized with new points of view, re-remembered and revised. Memory is analog's analog: the more often you recall a memory the poorer the reproductive fidelity, because the recollection becomes inextricably contaminated by the present -- that is, the occasion of the recollecting.

MFDH: So you could have an especially inventive memory, and be recounting fantasies.

CBB: Not quite. I do have some external validation for the basic integrity of my memory. For example, it is not rare for someone to read a story of mine in which they themselves are portrayed, and have them say to me, "Jesus Christ -- that's exactly how I said that! How did you ever remember that?" I just do, is all. I seem to be on target more often than I miss, when it is something that can be verified, but I do miss sometimes.

MFDH: Can you give us an example?

CBB: Sure. In Ode to Littlestar I state that Littlestar and I were introduced to one another by our mutual friend Ishmael. Upon reading the ode Littlestar correctly informed me that it was actually our mutual friend dteeuwen.

MFDH: Has anyone ever disputed your version of events, to your knowledge?

CBB: Well, the girl portrayed in Lipgloss Gypsy feels that my take on our relationship was: quote nasty unquote. On the other hand a friend of hers read it recently and confided that it seemed like a fairly precise portrait.

MFDH: Anything else?

CBB: Well, my friend [Redacted] once asked me to redact certain passages from a diary post that mentioned his [redacted] and his previous [redacted].

MFDH: Interesting. What about accusations that in your romances you portray yourself as a "flawless hero"?

CBB: That's a difficult charge to defend. As I've said, I honestly do try to capture things as authentically as I can -- that's part of the exercise. But I also admit to restructuring things in order to try to tell a compelling story. I tend to remember my own zingers more clearly than I remember the clever things other people say, that's true. But I certainly don't consciously set out to paint myself shinier or larger than life. I mean, people who know me recognize me in my writing, and don't tend to look at me askance while they stifle chuckles and say things like, "So, is this really how you see yourself?" Instead, they say, "Oh yeah -- I remember when that happened, yeah."

MFDH: So does that mean you really are a flawless hero?

CBB: ...Pardon me.

MDFH: Are you alright?

CBB: I'm sorry. I fell off my chair, and was rolling on the ground laughing out loud.

MFDH: Thank you for not using an acronym.

CBB: Listen -- whatever image some people may have inferred, here is the God's honest truth about me, which I've never tried to hide: I am an untall, wiry little monkey with a pot belly. I have a big nose, and I talk out of one side of my mouth. I have no sense of style. My voice is not soothing. I am clumsy, and absent-minded. I have hairy hobbit feet. I interrupt. I am a mediocre talent when it comes to drawing, painting and design. I'm nervous, and tend not to know what to do with my hands. I look away. I'm luckier than I am smart. I'm lazy and self-indulgent, self-satisfied and smug. I live in a hundred-year-old house that should have parts of it condemned, where I barely manage to scratch out a borderline economic existence with my sweet, chubby wife and my tiny kid who is just as cute and just as sharp as anybody else's tiny kid. I'm not successful or beautiful or brilliant -- I'm just some guy, you know?

MFDH: Anything to say to your critics on that account? Those who suggest your life is not as it is portrayed?

CBB: Yeah, sure. Why don't you come over for tea? We'll play with the dogs in the schoolyard and shoot the shit. Call ahead so I can put some time aside. I have a toll-free number. I'm slow but I'm friendly.

MFDH: You keep denigrating your intelligence, while earlier you lumped yourself in with people who are "bright." Can you explain?

CBB: I am middling bright. I've been around enough to know that. But I've also been around enough to have met a whole lot of people who are a whole lot brighter than me. I'm just lucky enough to have a fluid verbal ability, which allows me to simulate intelligence without much effort. I feel sorry for the genuinely smart people who are assumed to be idiot savantes just because they express themselves awkwardly. I have a silver tongue, and I'm not a total fool. That's pretty much what I've got going for me. Oh, and blue eyes. Blue eyes work wonders in this world. Don't let anybody tell you different. And mine aren't even all that blue. Grey, really.

MFDH: You're being glib again.

CBB: I promise you I'm not. The difference between a successful charismat and a mere loser with vision is all in the eyes.

MFDH: And the silver tongue.

CBB: The tongue yes, naturally the tongue.

MFDH: What would you do if you could influence millions of people?

CBB: Are you ready for the geekiest answer in the world? I'd want to make Mars habitable, and get pioneers there.

MFDH: Why?

CBB: Because you shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket. This star system is feisty place. As a supporter of sentience, I think it's the responsible thing to do. No matter what criticisms you may have of civilization so far, it would be a shame if the whole cavalcade were for nought.

MFDH: Are you religious?

CBB: Define the term.

MFDH: Are you spiritual?

CBB: Define the term.

MFDH: Do you believe in God?

CBB: No. And I stick to that conviction religiously.

MFDH: Do you believe in right and wrong?

CBB: I believe in constructiveness and destructiveness, which for the most part depend on what the desired end is.

MFDH: Do you, like Anne Frank, believe that people are essentially good?

CBB: I believe that people are essentially apes. Certain ways that apes tend to behave are constructive in fostering love and progress in a civilization, other ways are destructive. But it's hit and miss, because the programme was designed to run in a situation we seldom inhabit, these days. It's nice when apes groom one another and cuddle, but it's trouble when they throw shit, murder and rape. We're animals. However much we may glorify our rationality, it still struggles against a backdrop of instinct. This is why we build institutions -- we hope that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, so that society can act wisely rather than behaving like a giant meta-monkey.

MFDH: How does this point of view translate to your politics?

CBB: My who? Oh, politics. I really don't have much to say about politics. I'm very politically naive.

MFDH: What do you mean by "naive"?

CBB: Well, most of the really serious political decisions seem to come down to subscribing to one understanding of the economic consequences, or an opposing understanding. Myself, I don't know jack shit about economics. Will it really bankrupt America to institute nationalized health care coverage? Fucked if I know. As a Canadian I like the idea, but I'd be an utter fool to suggest I really understand the ramifications. I'm not going to listen to some television pundit and then pretend I feel informed enough to argue.

MFDH: What about human rights?

CBB: I believe every human being has the right to die, and the right to avoid doing so by any means open to them. Anything beyond that is pure gravy. It's friendliness. It's the luxury of co-operation. People have rights granted to them by the institutions or communities in which they function -- none of those rights is actually inalienable, except the two I mentioned.

MFDH: That's a fairly bleak view.

CBB: On the contrary, it is what enables me to see the constructive value in institutions and communities despite their flaws -- they are a delicate rampart against the storm of pure instinct. Why did Moses say "Thou shalt not murder"? Because people were murdering each other, not because he thought it was a pleasing bit of abstract philosophy. Murder was fucking up his community. It was destructive.

MFDH: Pro-Life or Pro-Choice?

CBB: Shut up.

MFDH: Do you follow sports?

CBB: Yeah, like I follow boy bands. No. No, I never watch televised sports. I've enjoyed myself at some live sporting events from time to time, but I don't actually care.

MFDH: What kind of music do you listen to?

CBB: Beethoven, Rimsky-Korsakov, Bach, Rossini, Brahms.

MFDH: Are you a music snob?

CBB: Nope. Just likes what I likes, is all.

MFDH: Last big question. Why do you pour time into the Scooposphere, into the web in general? You must have put in hundreds of hours by now. What do you get out of it?

CBB: First of all, I like to make people laugh. I like to laugh myself. We laugh a lot around here. And I can't help but want to share funny things when they occur to me. I also really enjoy life. I mean, things are frequently difficult, but in general I'm a very happy guy who has a pretty good time just about every day. And I want to share that existential giddiness, to spread the whimsy around a little. Life's fun, and I get off on being able to transmit little slices of that fun out to a wider audience. That's the lighter side of the same sentiment I expressed in What Art Is where I describe the need to create art as a desire to export awe. Living is awesome. There's too much awe to keep all to myself. I want you to taste it, too. In a similar vein, I hunger to taste juicy snippets of other people's lives, too. That's why I love the diaries. Unfettered reports from the front lines of being a human being, on Earth in the twenty-first century. I can't get enough.

MFDH: You write chiefly about yourself. Would you consider yourself a narcissist?

CBB: I don't know. I only have my high-school. I'm familiar with the myth, but I don't really know what it implies in terms of psychology. Does it mean I'm supposed to be in love with myself?

MFDH: Partly.

CBB: Well, then no. I'm not in love with myself. I am in love with the universe of ideas inside my head, which I suppose I own, but I don't think of it as myself any more than I think of my toe-nail clippings as myself. My imagination keeps me entertained and enthralled, and I do love that richness that it lends to my life. I am obsessed with the contents of my own head, which I think would make me "self-absorbed" more than a "narcissist." It also explains why I fall down a lot, because I don't pay attention.

MFDH: Do you really think the contents of your own head are that special?

CBB: As special as what? Special enough to please me? Sure. I never claimed to be the world's toughest audience. The ideas in my head aren't revolutionary or dazzling -- they're just vivid. That's what makes them so easy to distill out into a story...I just copy them down out of my brain, like an underpaid secretary.

MFDH: Vonnegut once said that all sons try to make the unrealized dreams of their mothers come true. What do you think about that?

CBB: I think it's utter nonsense. I'm a computer animator, whereas my mother wanted to be writer.

MFDH: Uh, okay. Any closing thoughts?

CBB: Sure. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. What have you got to lose? You only live once. What's the worst that could happen? Carpe diem and so on.

MFDH: You're a cheerleader for people exploring their fullest potential?

CBB: As long as it pleases them, and hurts no one else.

MFDH: One last thing. Can I use the washroom before I leave?

CBB: Yeah, but be fairly warned -- it kinda smells like cat shit in there.

MFDH: Cat shit?

CBB: It's a princely life I lead.


Fin.