So I tonight I’m kickin’ it in my best Hef styled robe, all plush, fuzzy, and warm. It’s a deep maroon. I’m puffing on a tightly rolled stogie and flopping around the east wing of the ranch in my mink and leather slippers. I sit down at my tennis court sized desk, which is made of amazon rain-forest burl-wood, and I fire up Microsoft Money in order to survey my vast financial empire, expecting to fire off some memos to have my grovelling underlings pay the Lear jet pilot, the helicopter fuel people, and my monthly submarine parking fees, and I see that I’m overdrawn by like eight hundred bucks in my checking account. “What in tarnation?” I shout, the side of my mouth clamped down on the Cuban. I look at my transaction history and see about three thousand bucks worth of google ad word purchases. Them there’s fraudulent charges, I say to myself, and quickly follow this statement by launching the cigar out of my mouth like a scud missile propelled by a soliloquy of profanities so vile, so poisonous, so disgusting that it kills all the plant life within several hundred feet of my home and just stuns any nearby mouth breathing mammal into motionlessness, placing me at ground zero of my own little crater of scorched and smoking ex-greenery. Near as I can figure it, either my latest purchase at the local five star eatery (Arby’s) or a recent donation to the red cross is the culprit, the corrupter of my exclusive one of a kind credit card, the one I almost bought an aircraft carrier on last week. Them sons of bitches, now ya’ll have gone and pissed me off.