Monday

This is supposed to be a photie of potatoes, which I have been forced to put up for sale. I reckon I can cover everything for about a hundred grand i.e. giving up the jobbie, going to Sikkim, three years in the hut, and levitating. For a hundred grand I think I would let the millionaire philanthropist who is reading this in on a fifty fifty split of future earnings from Bliss Productions, my new marketing company. First of all, I have not had any offers yet for the well used training mitts which I put on sale here before.

Buying these mitts along with the old crepe bandage would be a great help to the world when this cloning malarkey is up and running. Nearly thirty years of sweat and some blood. You're bound to be able to produce millions of Hotboys with kit like that!

And why would this be a good idea, Hotboy? Well, Jack, if you don't believe in rebirth or re-incarnation, and in the Disbelieving Congregation we don't believe in anything, well, I must have a genetic predisposition to the bliss. That's obvious. Of course, when evolution has progressed a bit, everybody will get the bliss from day one, but until then it is better to give the blissheids a bit of an edge in the old evolutionary stakes because most of them don't seem to be very interested in breeding and would much prefer to loll around in the bliss.

So if you buy the mitts for a hundred grand, I will also throw in a bag of magic tatties and promise to come and get you out of hell when you are dead. If you are a millionaire and refuse to cough up, the photie is what happened the the last millionaire who refused to give me money. A lightning bolt! It wasn't my fault. It's just that things like that tend to happen to people who upset moi. Thor was a Viking of course. Tons of viking DNA in the mitts!