Celebration Day

Oooh, splish splash.

Oh yeah, some more.

Want me to pop another?












Champagne, you deviants. Put whatever paraphilia that warps your mind and reaps your soul back in your unmentionables. Celebrate good times. C'mon.

Yesterday, unless my adult beverage was spiked, always a possibility given who I shack up with, I believe that I actually finished one entire stanza (woo) for the first time in nearly two months. At least that's what the ink-stained paper was telling me in between fits of laughter at its poor quality, the witless foil to the good pieces that I, um, will certainly pilfer write someday, but more examinations not tested on animals might be necessary. Yes, this is what passes for thrill-a-minute excitement in my shadowy, cobwebbed corner of the space-time continuum. A shame it's about as lovely as moldy bread. Perhaps I should compose a paean to moldy bread.

















Man is a creature who lives not on bread
Alone, sans rhizophus stolonifer
And her fuzzy, verdant fur, as it were;
Oh, sweet mycotoxin, don't leave me dead!

For how can these loaves drown my heaving head
Without more unseasoned spores? Enzymes, come!
Fungi fun, this whole greater than our sum!
Joyous colony, you heard what I said;

Medical warnings? I don't give a fig.
Your divinity I devour again.
Sharp, anguished malady? On second thought,

Asexuality just ain't my gig.
Ouch! Stomach, writhing in exquisite pain --
Oh fierce, terrible mold, what hath thee wrought?*

There. That should complete the mojo jumpstart (and you thought I was getting soft). Thanks for reading, but I gotta go. Hope I can avoid becoming the newest collateral damage installment of my friendly neighborhood unhinged cracker terrorist imperialist socialist caliph crazy library patron. Wish me luck.

*For novelty purposes only. Don't eat moldy bread at home. Eat it at a restaurant, then after you get sick, you can sue and live large, spending your legally-stolen stash on fancy bakery products shipped overnight from Old Europe.