be remembered as ingeniously twisted

George Carlin.

I want to be George Carlin.

I’ll settle for taking half of his brain and sewing it to half of Hunter S. Thompson’s brain with glue made from Tarantino’s carefully processed remains, wrapped in intestinal lengths pulled from the quivering nuclear corpse of Picasso, with sprinklings of Jack The Ripper’s teeth shavings for decoration.

Not that I want to be a killer.

I just want to own a few pieces of a killer.

How much for a nipple?