When vriends are hard to find.

Swine or no swine, trusting a man with a groomed beard with a gun and who can't distinguish the the letter f from the letter v is always going to be a mistake.

The beard manages to pronounce every other consonant correctly and becomes agitated when questioned. Is he annoyed because he has been delayed in out Hipstering his Hipster friends (vriends) by taking his  bakelite headset and shortwave radio on the bus?

Despite his faults he certainly knows how to wear a cravat correctly and at least should be vanked vor not succumbing to vashion vearing as a poorly vormed noose. 

Have cravat, will wage WAR!

A man in a cravat will always go forward. Others, the cravatless, will never be so sure. Mayhem. Chaos. Pandemonium. These mean little to the confirmed cravat wearer. The man who wears the cravat, (perhaps defined as a cravatateur?) understands control and how to mould order from random lunacy. As our hero implores "...D'YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" to his cravatless quivering charge, the truth is self evident. No cravat, no thinking. No thought, no control. 

I like a good party...

Time to put your hands in the air. Time to smile and be happy. Laughs all around. Looking good wearing your cravat. Being with your friends. Feeling good about yourself. Thinking of good things. Except of course for those creeps below you in the blazing inferno. They can all go to heck, or even worse!

Trick shot.

For my next trick shot I'll make the bullet curve in the air and then wait for that blighter to come into full view. Not only am I good shot and a good sport I am also quite the fellow with my dashing cravat and smart side part. What-ho chaps!