In the age of overt ridiculousness and inert ineptitude I shall throw myself into the ring and reward the Wurl with a bout that rivals a Rosanne Vs. Oprah deathmatch in Jello-Pudding with Bill Cosby as referee: Holy Fuckoly let's get this rumble of stumble started.
In the interim period between this magically-delicious night of porch beers and porno tryouts and my last eponymous post, activities have been more like a multitude of fishes from HeyZeus' hands than a Frasier-chair of flabolanches and chicken-fry orgies at a Burger King in Havana; more than an embarrassment of riches with no reward, less than a poke in the prick from a hobo. So many days and nights of Hero Dirt at SMP and Swope - the home of Single Speeeeed Kansass Shitty - and even more late nighty nights imbibing grains fermented into kegs of juicy juices from the loins of the Goddess. Long live 7Lumens and her panoply of saints, for we are the music makers, the dreamers of the cream sauce with a side of Gummy Hairs.
Fuck the PoPo.