Message in a Bottle

I was walking down Prince Philip Drive yesterday.
Hoping that people in cars would notice me.
It sort of backfired though because as one car drove by, a passenger yelled:
"Get a haircut!"
So I yelled back, "Be more accepting of other people!"
In hindsight, I should've just yelled, "Blow me!"

If I was stranded on a desert island, I wouldn't even try to survive.
I'd just dust my hands of sand and say, "Well, guess I'll wait for death, then."
Which wouldn't take long.
It's not like I could fashion a raft.
I have trouble determing whether or not pictures have been hanged level.
Before the buzzards and torti gnawed on my carcass I'd probably spell something out with rocks.
For posterity more than anything.
It's what you're supposed to do on a desert island.
And we all know how desperately I want to fit in.
Probably something like:
DON'T BOTHER, JUST KEEP FLYING
or
I SHOULDN'T HAVE WENT WHALE WATCHING
Then I'd lie back in the bleached sand and wait for the tide.
While listening to The Beach Boy's Pet Sounds.
Because it's one of my desert island discs.
Which I carry around with me wherever I go.
Just in case.
Plus a little album that has tunes like this corker: