Ed.(Wood)--Because it requires little effort with more "BOOM!", I decided the time has come to unravel the annoying Mystery Cult that is the fortune cookie. Hey, fuck decorum and other Latinate wording for the dumbshow crowd. After consuming a variety of tasty Americanized Chinese dishes, after gorging, and gorging (I don't eat like this, but many fat-assed A'murkans do), heading to the neighborhood vomitorium, then going back for sixths, the pigs go and eat a fortune cookie too. So do I, not that I gorge, and I'm not obese or from Mississippi, the worst state in the nation.And so, there comes the fortune, encased by what would never normally pass the muster as a real cookie. For some weird-assed reason, simpletons read these fortunes thinking (if you want to call it that, I don't) this shit can somehow come true, or that it's unique, sage fucking advice of some kind for the yokels who are more superstitious than an ancient Sicilian peasant woman.Nonetheless, the cookies occasionally do actually make some kind of sense--certainly more than the people who think the advice and aphorisms (look it up) have some bearing on their cowardly way of unliving. Great, fine, whatever. I'm not even going into the "Lucky Number" bullshit, since that's yet more irrational pap for magical thinkers, crazies, and of course, the mooks. I don't normally enjoy the role of "Satan-the-accuser," but hey, this shit invites it, people invite it when they flap their gums too much. Americans have turned it into a pastime.And so, without any adieu whatsoever, because no one's paying me for this shit except Dennis Marrero (thanks):"Your present plans are going to succeed."Uh, shit--how did they know? OK, I was planning to mount (heh) Schlieffen Plan attempt #3, it's true. This time we decided to burn down the Louvre, demolish the Arch de Triumphe, turn the Bastille into a whorehouse, and make a pinata our Napoleon's carcass, I admit to this, kidding aside folks, and this time the trains will run on time and be able to be recalled.