Right.

Hogarth and Rembrandt Sittin' in a tree? Walked into this bar..

"It's all wrong." proclaimed Hogarth. "Too much colour. Not enough shapes." "It's all wrong." proclaimed Rembrandt. "Solid colours, too bright."

Meanwhile, Joey, the young athelete and grocery deliveryboy, was making what would be a very special delivery to Mrs. Johnson's house!

The bitch called me again. I'll have to cut her up soon. The sooner the better. No time like the present. Why put off til tomorrow what you could do today? Early to bed, early to rise. The early bird gets the worm.

Across town, the tooth fairy was experiencing a tongue-busting hangover. The eve before was a good one. She had paid out $10 for 50 fine teeth, which she then sold on the black market for $3000. She was beginning to think about switching her career, though. There was far more money in organs. Yeah... the liver fairy... the lung fairy.

Micheal was in the process of becoming Michelle. Glossy lipstick! Yum!

Li'l Joanie wasn't born with these powers. Or if she had been, she wasn't aware for the longest time. Not til grade 10. Imagine! Sixteen years old, and suddenly she has the strength of twenty atom bombs, the reflexes of a leopard on speed, telekinesis, skin of steel, the ability to fly at will, and general control over life and death.

Two outs, two strikes, bases loaded, top of the ninth, and the home team up by two runs. "Home Run" Willy versus "Fastball" Johann. It all came down to this.

Picasso was known to never throw out any of his toenail clippings. Upon his death, it is said, he had them put aboard Voyager II and sent out into deep space.

When I was a boy, I had to walk thirteen miles through minefields, sniper crossfire, and nuclear weapons tests to get to school.

Francis was hungry. Boy was Francis hungry. Actually, Francis was famished... ravenous even! In fact, Francis was so hungry, he died of starvation!

"Let's just leave." suggested Hogarth. "Nah," replied Rembrandt, "I wanna get a beer first."

"Thank you so much for bringing my groceries, Joey." said the buxom wife of Joey's highschool principle. "No prob," replied Joey, and moved to leave. "Oh, and Joey?" said Mrs. Johnson, starting to unbutton her blouse, "There's one more thing you could do for me..."

When King Tutankhamen was just a boy, he died!

Of course, she briefly considered using her powers to fight crime. Eventually, though, she decided to use them to exact terrible revenge on those students that had bullied her, ruin the lives of those teachers who had failed her, and make all the cutest boys fall in love with her.

"Fastball" decided for the cautious route and threw the ball exactly one inch off the plate. "Homerun" didn't even flinch. Ball one.

Picasso is also less known as the founder of the "Cubism" movement of art.

Often when Abe Lincoln walked his dog, it pooped, according to many scholars of American history.

A dribble of sweat on his brow now, "Fastball" whipped the ball faster than the eye could possibly see, exactly one tenth of an inch off the plate. "Homerun" Willy yawned. Ball two.

So Rembrandt sat, drinking his 'Tuborg' and Hograth was doodling on a paper napkin, when in walked Wendy O. Williams and Debbie Harry. Rembrandt looked up and gave a low whistle. The girls began to slowly saunter over towards their table.

Edgar Allan Poe drank to excess, married his 14 year old cousin, and wrote about Ravens and murderers, and made a guest appearance on an album cover of the 'Beatles'. Otherwise, he was pretty normal.

Imagine the kinds of skits that the current cast of 'SNL' - writers of such endearing shit as "Toonses the Driving Cat", "Hans and Franz", and "The Sarcastic Clapping Family", to name just some of their crap - would do if they had any of these people host an episode: Salvador Dali, Charles Manson, Atilla the Hun, Oscar Wilde, or Hunter S. Thompson.

O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; or, if thou wilt not, be sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy. Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What's a Montegue? It is nor hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. O, be some other name!

This was, of course, the last game, the tiebreaker of the World Series. "Fastball" Johann wiped the sweat from his face and wound up, and up, and up. Then he let fly, straight down the plate. The moment the ball left his hand, it broke the sound barrier. It rapidly gained speed after that... 5,000 miles per second... 20,000 miles per second... 50,000 miles per second... 100,000 miles per second... 150,000 miles per second. DANGEROUSLY close to the speed of light...

It was all rot between Rembrandt, Hogarth, Wendy O. and Debra Harry, of course. What do you want? Sticky sheets?

I should be emancipated by now. And emaciated. Should I be emmasculated as well, so much the better. I should then be ready to emmanate, to emmulate... to embody!

FORSOOTH! I go! To bathe in the blood of the lamb!