In Loving Memory of Roger, a Roto of a Toti, Josh. 7/29/01 Thomas Lipschultz Roger would always push the rototiller toward me, and to prevent serious injury, and replace it with semi-serious injury, I would often try to hold it back with my hands, at which point Roger would say, "Yeah, NOW you're catching on!", and cackle and cackle and cackle until his lungs arched inward just enough from cackle-stress that he would collapse in upon himself and die. Oh wait, he only did that to me once. But, enough about me. Why are YOU here? After all, they only send their best and brightest to this PARTICULAR meat packaging plant. You've gotta be a whiz, got a story to tell, or somethin'. I'm serious! You have a hidden talent. I won't tell anyone, I promise. Why, they selected me by hand out of an entire city of free-range bipeds. I, meat-packer, because of my brains, my brawn, and my bust. Or is that "brust"? Yeah, I'm just joshin' with ya', Josh. One night, Saint Peter appeared to me in a dream and said I had been admitted into Heaven. I said, "yeah, right", and remembered what Roger did to me with the rototiller. So, finding a rototiller nearby, I pushed it. But Saint Peter is dead and all, and a saint, so it just rolled right through him. Thinking fast, I said to him, "man, get a grip!", at which point I woke up in Hell. I spent the rest of my days studying the physical and chemical make-up of saints. My goal was to develop a means of turning any ordinary biped into a rototiller-proof being, capable of superimposing him or her self into or onto anything which can be represented with a noun. And this includes ideas, but really, ideas are already superimposed upon us, if you want to think of them as originating from the brain, mind, or soul, and if you believe in standard Cartesian dualism. Yeah, I'm full of shit. Oh yeah, the rototiller-proofing. I had mild success. I wasn't able to get any bipeds to be capable of superimposing themselves into or onto any noun-represented... uh... crap, how do I end that sentence? Well, you understand. Anyway, I was only able to develop a race of beings capable of walking through or otherwise being ridden through by rototillers. Rototillers, rototillers, and ONLY rototillers. I called these new, SUPERIOR bipeds, the "Rototillians." I gave Mexico to them! But enough about Mexico... why are YOU here? After all, they roto send their best and tiller to this PARTICULAR meat packaging plant. You've roto be a whiz, got a tiller to tell, or sometill. I'm rototi! You have a rototiller. I roto tell anytill, I otot. Why, they tilled me by roto out of an entiller city of free-roto tills. I, meat-poto, because of my ro, my totill, and my er. Or is that "iller"? Yeah, I'm tiller to' ya', Roto. Rototiller rototiller tiller tiller tot tot, rotobotto rotobotto tiller tiller bot. Bitty roto bitty roto bobba bobba bit bit, tiller tiller botaroti tilly tilly rit.