Thread:Vorknkx/@comment-3547390-20150204202730/@comment-1496755-20150501104328

Aaaah, those were the days.

There I was, in the middle of the Valley of Death, surrounded by choking clouds and sizzling hot air. I had to tie rags around the cattle's heads in order to prevent them from dying on me. I also had a bunch of retired ballerinas with me (they thought I knew a shortcut to the Yucatan peninsula) and they complained all the time about the toxic fumes making their hair fall off. What's the big deal, I mean - they dance with their legs, not their hair, right?

So yeah, lots of sulfur in those soil samples from that valley. And that was confusing my navigation. So I thought that it would be easier to simply dig a tunnel, take the San Andreas Fault shortcut and emerge through the Paricutin crater (back then it was still pretty hot and sizzling).

But did I ever think of having a hiatus? No, sir! Real men don't need such things! We are tough! We drink a crate of scotch a day and smoke steel nails (tobacco is for weaklings)!