Everyone's been so nice. It's heaven.

The people are so nice, but this place is really strange to me. The air is different. My nose feels all dry. The only thing I've seen that looks familiar is the McDonalds.

The people are so nice, but this place is really strange to me. The air is different. My nose feels all dry. The only thing I've seen that looks familiar is the McDonald's.

We hope to high heaven that (the accidents) start to go down, Playgrounds are safer than they were.

Maybe there is no Heaven. Or maybe this is all pure gibberish—a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow—to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested . . . Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll.

You better take care of me Lord, if you don't you're gonna have me on your hands.