&pp=ygUNcG9sbHkgbmlydmFuYQ%3D%3D


Thirty six?

What a stu-rrrurupp-stupid number!

Thirty six is the number of platinum singles I’m partially responsible for writing.

Thirty six is one number away from the rounded answer of what’s sixty-nine divided by two

What divides me and you thirty six?

Besides being a cunt?

I’ve drank thirty six beers today.

I know the all thirty six chord changes in Goodbye to yellow brick road.

I’ve rolled double six at the Paris thirty six times… the odds? One in thirty six. And Nevada was the thirty sixth state.

I had slept with thirty six women by the time I was 17.

What divides us, thirty-six?

I’ve lost two matches in a row… but you’re about to lose thirty six of em




It’s 1993 and Frances has made his way, via hitchhiking, to north 36th street in west Memphis, Arkansas.

He's down to his last thirty six cents in his pocket.

Just up ahead, a theater is offering smut horror films for 35 cents a show. Your typical c-grade horror flick, some type bullshit shock and terror blood and guts with a spooky mask and no substance.

The title? The Right Handed Rainbow Murderer.

Sounds dreadful

…but at least they have air conditioning.

Marigold is drunk as fuck. Leaning back in his seat. His head swirling around.

Next to him sits an indie film critic, who is absolutely ENTHRALLED by this genre.

Fuck schindlers list
Fuck Gilbert grape
Fuck Philadelphia

The blood and guts, and dark, abstract nature of knock off c-grade films are all the rage now!

“I just love it! It’s so EDGY!”

Frances looks at the critic, his head wobbles and then he heroically vomits in the critic’s lap.