Bad Jobs #1

one of the dogs, Odin -- part chow, part pit, part rot, might as well have been born a bulldozer -- bit off and swallowed one of the Berkley punx pinky fingers.

No shit. (I bet that guy’s still tripping his nuts off.) So they busted into the dark womb of my interpersonal purgatory to inform me that Odin the Annihilator had bitten this guy’s finger off and everybody had nominated my paranoid ass to chauffeur him along with some freaky squatter chick to the hospital.

I think it’s important that we explore my state of mind. As I said earlier, I wanted to believe it was the end of the world so very, very much. The only reading material I was keeping by my little bedroll was a stack of about thirty back issues of Thrasher magazine. I had a few pictures 9