Cleveland. Our teams may be minor, but our corruption is big league.
Now that's marketing. C'mon, you gotta admit that that's my best idea since the last book proposal I had, The Marxist Poetics of 'Yo Mama So Fat.'
The above is a common placeholder when typing up the post that I sometimes mentally compose on the bus because by the time I get to work, having been distracted by a weird, ambient sound, a strip joint bus in front of a church, the rock and/or roll eviscerating my hearing even further and, last but not least, shambling to clock in on the Orwellian computing machine lest I not officially be here -- just check the security camera for someone flipping the bird, doofi -- the tenets of arcane wisdom that I had planned to impart upon thee have decided of their own volition to merrily float in detached bliss amidst the low-hanging neon purple and orange ether as I wander aimless throughout the black, foreboding landscape of my skull cavity.
What's with the Crowes' version of disco inferno below, you inquire, especially since I just posted some of their stuff not too long ago and it's not as if there aren't fourteen billion other bands --
"Like the Beatles!"
Shut your piehole. Oh, ?. Don't want to neglect proper punctuation and have the top secret paramilitary assassination squads of academia on my ass. Anyway, the diabolical summoner of that putrid devil Kissinger unwittingly gave me in a comment the ending for the next as-yet-unwritten edition of Serial Flasher Friday Fiction and despite the blasphemy against Cthulhu's green earth, one must reward good work, plus I'm loving this fucking album so too bad for you. A word: don't cross Popeye Doyle tonight, he's in a bad mood. If only I had a hat like him, I'd be 47.8% cooler.
BYOgoldlaméhotpants. Now let's dance.
"You loathe dancing."
Not with babes in hot pants, stupid.