But what land was it? Iceland? Greenland? Long Island?

Aye, grim and foreboding it was, with the smell of decaying hulks hanging heavy in the air around us.

So we though we might have Quality Lincoln take the helm for the last dog leg of the tour. Big mistake.

Certain doom? I spit in your face, you flimsy cardboard sideshow attraction.

I distinctly heard a Mexican rhythm combo. Did I say something just then? Did you?

Is it a southern moon? Hard to tell from space. Everything is relative, relatively speaking. I even have relatives in my band.

Scuttle me britches, sons-of-a-bitches. Hast the moist hizzen, for shizzle.

Expect to see us huddled together? Not a chance – it’s every slug for himself in this band.

We’ve been served. And I don’t mean by a particularly skillful dance troupe.

Floating? Falling? Only my mentalist knows for sure.