je bois, j'ai plus soif
Jebus, Jebus plus soif

You know you're getting older when you keep meaning to buy a nose hair trimmer so that you don't have to grip tufts of hair and yank them from your nostrils. A wild jungle is sprouting that would give any Vietnam veteran a bit of a fever. Eyebrows become longer and some strands grow so long that you leave them in amazement to see how long they can grow. Slow sports for the sofa spectator.

Speaking of sports I'm playing tennis this evening. Last week I went out and bought a load of tennis clobber - all so that I could look like a prime asshole. I do not however reserve the right to grunt and shout, punch the air with my fists and look menacingly at my opponents through a rising sun headband, all because I've had a hard week in the office. My balls just aren't big or hairy enough and I didn't go to a public school where we could all share these things with each other.

In an expression of my disagreement with Christianity I am proclaiming to be the Son of Jebus. And since we're all one and the same (those silly bastards all those years ago never realised that we would one day comprehend base 10 number systems with values greater than three) If I am to be the Son of Jebus, then I am Jebus. I can irrefutably say that I belong to Jebus.

As Homer said 'Help! Save me Jebus. But I don't even believe in Jebus'

God (Jebus) bless that fat, bald yellow man.