My sister and I knew it wasn’t in the real rules, but we liked doing it because it meant we could play a game of Monopoly over three days or more (we also allowed a lot of loans from the bank, to each other, etc.). We never started with a deposit on Free Parking though. If you landed there with no money you just had to cry about it.

Also, I like both cooked AND raw carrots. I love carrots.

Although while I did time in a Federal Penitentiary we never played it that way! Whoever landed on FREE PARKING got to spend a little quality time with house bitch!

ps…. I have never been in a federal or any other penitentiary!

Great now I’m going to be scared for life.

also, raw carrots ftw!

so, I’m a rogue intellectual. awesome.

From my offline journal, 2004:

I had an interesting time the other day in Beverly Hills trying to
find out if the Rolex I found in the Casa De Toro dumpster was real or not. I got Gordon The Hollywood Anarchist to take me up there in The Pig (my ex-Buick Electra) because he knows the lay of the land.

Gordon and I arrived at the Rolex Fortress on Wilshire Boulevard
in Beverly Hills around noon. High noon. While we were driving around and around the block looking for cheap street parking (silly us), we found that we were coincidentally following a big fat white new Roller (Rolls Royce) of which Gordon knew the make, model and pedigree,

“We’d better turn out from behind these Roller Arabs,” Gordon
said, going in to his Arab-accent mimic: “Achmed, put away your pipe bombs. There are two infidels in a purple Buick following us!”

Gordon decided to pull up to the gated, camera’d entrance to the
Rolex Fortress parking lot. We must’ve presented quite a bumraggled sight to whomever was looking at us through that gate camera: two homeless vets in a three-toned 1989 Buick with a trunk that wouldn’t close all the way. I expected a voice over the gate intercom to tell us that the janitor’s entrance was around back. But there was no voice. The Cycloptian gate camera just looked at us. Maybe we were being scanned.

Gordon pushed the intercom button and, using his Inspector General Beverly Hills voice, announced curtly, “We have business with Rolex.”

“Thank you, sir,” the intercom bleated as the gate crossbar sprang up out of our path like the bowing, head down supplicants of a conquered pagan city making a hasty hole in the crowd for the Roman Centurions to pass into the city. We were in.

We parked and admired Fortress Rolex. It is a three-story gray
building in the nine thousand block of Wilshire. There were no windows, but no parapets, either. It looked like the Federal Reserve.

Gordon made some joke as we walked towards the doors about the Rolex Police arresting me on the spot for perhaps bringing them a stolen (or worse than that . . . a FAKE) Rolex, for having the
unmitigated gall to bring the stench of Inglewood to the very doors of the Rolex Politburo, but I was already nervous enough. I smelled money. Their money. And the smell of other people’s money, when there is a LOT of it, always makes me nervous.

END PART ONE

Carrots should, under no circumstance, be cooked. Have you ever seen glass Gerber baby containers emerging from the Earth?

No fart or poop jokes, NutCheese. Anal as in anal-retentive. Look it up.

That’s okay. Better than nothing at all…or worse: lipservice. Programs for the homeless are nothing more than employment programs for otherwise unemployable and stupendously surly pencil pushing clerks and/or payola for political favors.

Acorn sucks. Americorps sucks. They are corrupt. Corrupt to the bone. I’m talking personal experience here. The only honest homeless programs I have personal experience with were the church-run soup kitchens and food banks. Those people are saints.