Oh Snap!

My rebound from Ughville has bounced my puny self into Craptasticville.

Craptasticville is a suburb of the lesser populated Chemoville, where the residents have plenty of reason to say:

"Hey! Quit whining about how your throat-head-right-eye-tummy-left nostril-lower-right-earlobe-and-your-weird-little-pinky-toe hurts. 

I. Have. Poison. In. My. Veins. 

No, not a bad 80's hair band with a lead singer currently making money by letting VH1 film skeevy, unemployed, clear-platform-heel-and-bad-weave-wearing-skanks-with-vomit-breath stick their tongues down his bandanna'd, guylined, suspected-collagen-lipped throat. 

No. POY-suhn. P-O-I-S-O-N. POISON. In my veins. Yeah. 

And you don't hear me bitching."

They have puhlenty of reason to say that. But they don't.

In other fun facts, Craptasticville is Halfglassistan's top repository of antibacterial soap, Purell, alcohol wipes and sneezed-into-tshirts. It is also quickly becoming known for its booming development of guilt, but residents are working on curtailing production of that useless commodity.

It should probably also be noted that the mayor of Craptasticville might still be holding a grudge that stems from a cancelled concert circa 1989. 

Maybe. Just a little bit.