My bones feel like stringy leather in this junk-sick morning.
You're looking awfully grey, pink and fibrous. Have another shot.
More Montezuma? That's the foulest of the foul, cheap liquors!
You're just a junkie looking for a cold, black exit. You need some help, brother.
I think I smell someone cooking up a batch of Mugwump juice. A three-day bender of staring disconnectedly at a hardening loaf of bread sounds good right about now.
(His tether to reality is an evaporating tendril of frog jism at this point.)
