Now I laugh and make a fortune, ‘cuz the Comics are on Sunday and a world screams, “Kiss me, Son of God!”

Now, I can order in Latin: “make ’em au gratin, Joe!” I’m an old altar boy, that’s why I’m so depressed — I never got to read the Comics on Sunday. Now I’m habitual, majoring in crimes that are unspeakable.

Somos viciosos, y queremos molestarlos. Somos chismosos, en la sala lo matamos. Somos operarios de esta máquina banal. En la tormenta, leemos lo Sunday Comics; saludamos con hipocresía al dueño del lugar. Somos residentes.

Nineteen tequilas later we had a deal: Havana goes back to the mob, and the Sunday Comics open a chain of Kentucky Fried Chicken shops. Ain’t life sweet?

She says she knows my kind, she might, maybe so. Oh, yeah, she’s raised you right, your auntie Grizelda: You only read the Sunday Comics for show.

State your case with black or white, but when the Sunday Comics leads to shots, grit your teeth. You run for cover so discreet, why don’t they?

Them surround the place, them dey wait. Wait them helmet and them guns, and them petrol and them matches. Then suddenly, them dey break, steal, loot, burn, them break some some head.

They’re searching for Sunday. They’re grabbing the Comics. Sex and sin, sax and violins; it’s hell: wooden heads, furniture with legs. For sale.

Last night I had that dream again. I dreamed I had to read the Comics, on a Sunday on another planet…and then I looked around, and there was this woman — she was making it all up, she was writing it all down.

You had to piss on our parade; you had to shred our Sunday Comics; you had to ruin it for all concerned in a drunken punch-up at a wedding.