True Words of a Tongueless Communist

Hello, it is interesting to see that my rambling from Friday night has been read more than any other posts since I put up my new stat counter. Do my readers prefer that I stick to incomprehensible bullshit, would they rather read misspelled or made up words? The only conclusion that I can surmise is that my readers are a bunch of drunken third graders. Are you a part of some anti-drug education? Is it a school project to view my site as a way of understanding the downfalls of drug use? Whatever the reason is, welcome to my small but loyal reader base. On this site you will find vague but clever anecdotes about a man who was born in communist Russia. I speak only in gibberish and my friend Clifford translates and types all that I have to say. You see, I was born without a tounge, and a communist without a tongue is about as useful as a blind sniper. So by the age of five I was banished from my utopian birthplace to a hell on earth, England. I spent most of my childhood in London where I learned how to mend the soles of shoes, later I would join a monastery and mend the souls of humanity. Anyway, my life is rather uneventful so I turn to my saxophone which I bought off of a gipsy in Prague shortly after WWII. Since then I have moved to Minnesota where I play saxophone and woo women. Nothing is more sensual than a tongueless Russian playing saxophone. Off I go to drink some brew and play my horn. Oh horn, how I do love thee.