LIPS THAT TOUCH LIQUOR.

Settin' the pace.

Liquor the lips and thy secret shall be known. The trick would seem to be -- liquor the rest of the body, instead. Imagine that -- a cold heart and some warm hands. Taken on face value, there is little difference, afterall, between a Metrobus and a Succubus. A deeper examination reveals that one never comes on time, while the other only comes at night. Whereas the Porcubus is leaving, right now, for the Congressional District, HA-HOOGA. Listen to Charles Mingus and fly Aer Lingus Lingus Lingus Lingus Lingus, and, dern it, don your Porcupine Hat, gnat. "Talk about the greats" someone always wants to talk about the "greats" as if it's a condition. Comin' down from the grates, "Jimmy's in there, comin' down from the grates," and he is, in there, in the closet, sleeping on his feet. Eights, of course, are one rotation away from infinity. Or, if you've got a particular kind of eight, then, infinicky. O, Bored Walk of my Water Front, O, Boardwalk of my Moist Facade, HA-HOOGA. A furlough, Jack, is an economic readjustment, not the foxpiece worn round the ankles, and a furlong is a horse-race discrepancy. Rankle, ankle, angle, wrangle. Don't know 'bout you, but I need a nip just for everyday tongue-twisters, and other twisters, I need to reach out and touch liquor, since its spirits are distal, still, a distillation, dot, dot, dot, in the Northern Sky.

BLED & WAKE-FEST.

Grisly aftermath is fun!

Believe me when I say that, originally, you weren't supposed to scream "Yahtzee!" when you triumphed at dice games but "Nazi!" instead -- perhaps when you achieved a snake-eyes kind of Fascism, throwing the venom of your palm into the air. And that, at first, you could opt for a Fascism at the Day Spa, you know, seeking to smoothe-over the defects in your maniacal allegiance, until you had to flat-out request a Facial, instead. If you try to debunk your Uncle, you'll get a Debuncle, if you try to carburate your Uncle, you'll get a Carbuncle, and if you try to monopolize your Uncle's attention, you'll get a Monocle. Skin blemishes over swaths of time could lead to Epoch Marks. But I digress. These days, with respect to our information economy, Megalomania just ain't enough Mania, you need something like Gigalomania, to get just enough Mania. Yeah, yeah, yeah: Cleveland and rivers: yeah, yeah, yeah. You can await the river all you like when you should probably abate the river, you know, get a crew, and a foreman, and have them sit around the tailgate by belching grease and ogling the Convenience Mart. 'Talegate' as in a scandal that accompanied a Yarn or 'Tailgate' as in a scandal that accompanied de Lay o' de Land? You take risk, tsk tsk, you take risk. One minute you're checking into a Bed & Breakfast, the next minute you're checking out: Period. As in Bled & Wake-fest. Optimize now, and we'll throw in four Gigs of Mania at no extra charge! Optimize now, and one of our customer service operatives will -- personally -- clap you on the Carbuncle! Bundle, Buncle, Whoa Back, Buckle.

DON'T FENCE IF YOU AIN'T GOT NO CHAFF.

Rip, Rig, and Panic

The Lunar Cycle may cause Tsunami & Catastrophic Origami but it is Barbed Wire that brings out the Cheeky Grimace of the Moon. Speaking of which, Barbed Wire is some hateful fence. In that, it scalps some serious Hurt. And the Chafe begat Chaff, sayeth The Verse. And the Chaff begat Dust, a Harvest, a Sustenance, a Bowl. The Great Depression was a Seer, as well, a Prophet who'd been established in a tent, upon a throne, despite profound irritability, incurable remorse, and a large "D" embroidered on his chest, in 48-point Goudy Stout. One could seek his Decrees -- "Are you here to seek the Wisdom of, His Lowness, The Great Depression?" -- and it was his Collected Decrees that would triumph, eventually, in competitions with Other Revivals. The Great Depression was really a farmer named Tuffy. "Tried Legumes," he said, out back, behind the tent. "Tried Tubers, Ugly Fruits, and Assorted Goobers. Never thought of harvesting no Opinions, 'bout the only thing I could raise in this here Chafe." When asked if he'd pose for a few snapshots in his Getup, the farmer spat near his shoes, "Yep." Then his oilskin trousers ruptured after a suspicious clap. Think about what makes you Tick: We're all Ticking, you see. Don't hate if you ain't got no fence; don't fence if you ain't got no Chaff; don't Decree if you ain't prepped to risk some Cheeky Grimace.

ENMITY HATH MOTOR.

"COOL! / NO! / COOL! / NOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Mankind is being flung towards the far horizon at speeds greater -- and heights taller -- than God ever intended. "Oh, Why, Oh, Why," wail the mourners, as another man flies past, overhead. If the synagogue is where you sin, then the dialogue is where you dial. "Help Me!" in one tongue is "Tongue!" in another langue and "Merengue!" in yet another harangue. Lemon gets to be a risk. Grape-fruits get to be a risk. The fields molder and a cry spreads through the land. Oh Lord, why is there motor? There is motor, sayeth The Lord, to impress thine enemy. But mine enemy hath motor. Sayeth not hath, sayeth The Lord, for that is my very verb form. Very well then, but my enmity 'hath' motor. Thine enmity hath motor? shrieketh The Lord, thou dost bringeth the disnomer and the piss-nomer in thy protestations and for that -- I shall now smite thy fleeting moment of achievement in sport. And The Lord smote the pilgrim's second place finish, and the pilgrim, in turn, smote his younger brother, with a loud clap to both ears, and the younger brother, then suffering from a disturbance, smote the television set with a thirty-ought-six, even as the set continued to speak, " . . . in corporation we trust . . . ," a minor miracle.

DA BOTCH.

Laughs for Gaffes

The bus driver, once again, flips the pedestrian "the bird." So, the pedestrian rides the bus, figuring: "He can't give me the bird any more, because I'm riding the bus." Then, the bus driver slams on the brakes, and the pedestrian -- "Oooh!" she says -- falls out the door. She's a pedestrian again, and the bus driver is always the bus driver, he's always been the bus driver. He gives her the bird. She takes the new route home, but there's always a bus, and in that bus, under the little lamp, there's usually a bus driver, who flips her the bird. "Is it in their job descriptions," she thinks, "to flip me the bird?" She buys a can of black spraypaint, but doesn't really know what she's doing. She shakes it, rattling those little balls in the can, and sprays a terrible doodle on the wall, the wall of the newspaper building, the newspaper that always tells you what you think they're gonna tell you. She yells at her boyfriend, that night, and he says, "yeah yeah yeah." The next day, she yells at a colleague, too, over an ambiguous break room encounter. The colleague has a tattoo, just above the sock-line, that reads, "Beers beers beers." She thinks "yeah yeah yeah", she thinks "beers beers beers." She would invoke the loud legend of her God, but he's at the track, playing the ponies, or he's at the track, wearing a fedora, with his stinky armpit stains. She steps into the evening, just as the bus drifts down the street. "NOT IN SERVICE," it goes, on its forehead, passing her without incident, but leaving her, clap, clop, to walk the city, in Autumn chill.

BANANAS AU GRATIN.

Like never before.

The pilot has turned off the No Antisemitism Sign and you are now free to stagger about the aircraft, all red-faced and whatnot. Intercontinental or plain old incontinent, it hardly matters these days. Maybe if we had a rapper named Warmio the earth would cool, instead. I'd even settle for Lukewarmio, if the earth would enter a period of Glacial Mediocrity, as a result. If your possessions -- dig it -- are not in perfectly great shape, then the U.S. Mint Police will be paying you a visit. They have a new para-military commando unit known as the Mint Condition Police, the funds for which were diverted from The Legislation to Nowhere and The Finest Types of People to Nowhere and The Sensible Slacks to Nowhere. No, you cannot spell that "commandoe" with an "e" but you can be a Veep who fades away like an old soldier, in these, the Incorporated States of America, Limited. To whit, the athlete could spell neither "buttocks" nor "manicure" though his future would -- uncannily! -- involve both. The French, O, the French. They have added Serum to their fromages, and as a result, have pioneered Treu Cheese. "Eat and Confess" is their motto; it's a perfect snack before visiting the Precinct, like, forever. There is no more cracker for your whiz and there is no more succulent for your concubi. The lyrics do not go "Bananas: Endless / Endless: Bananas." Yes they do.

WHEN FANGS DO FISHERMAN NIP.

How to catch a Dorkfish

All right, People, the housing market ain't so bad that domiciles are cheaper than clothing. Before you start dressing in building materials, consider the fact that the snake will bite you just for looking like an idiot. "I wouldn't of [sic] bit that guy, had he not gone as a chimney. Chimney makes me feel MEAN." Thus sayeth the serpent. Was it Caesar who said "Venom, Vidi, Vici?" Or was it that dude, Seizure, instead, Julius Seizure? Either way -- consider the Message. Were you not Ridiculous, you would be unscathed. The minute you made yourself Ridiculous -- and let's talk about that minute, yes? Some say that Ridiculous is genetic but I say, You were not born Ridiculous. One minute fine, the next minute you've got the serpent coiling around your ankles. And for what, a bite of commonplace fish from a commonplace tributary? The bear -- we should note -- catches the fish without a rod and reel, without leggings, in fact, without clothing of any kind, and you're not going within one mile of that bear, am I right, Danger?