Two-bit carnie act

Sweet corn dog, I had the weirdest, most hallucinatory dream that I've had in many an age last night, perhaps spanning the entire recorded history of the Land of Nod over the last week. You were there, and you were there and you were there and so was a transmogrified Dirk Benedict











before he got blown up by a Predator drone guffaw chortle wheeze but thankfully you all escaped unscathed thanks to your Afghan wedding party shields being up, Captain, and then Y happened nearly simultaneously -- in more than four dimensions!

Behold ye scoffers, our limited biology be damned, for it felt not quite right as if the cotton candy you were chewing on was composed of sawdust and string theory runoff, and then it got really crazy when MX+Plan B -- yes, B -- oh, and then this parabola made of sighs tied with guitar string came screaming out of thin air, crashing upon the road paved with nougat and bits of said exploded mad scientist experiment and try driving over that when your tires are made of a patented marshmallow and human entrails mixture akin to drying cement, only more gooey. Denouement and advice: I wouldn't recommend haruspicy and driving because I also had to avoid an AK-47-wielding Philip Glass skipping across the yellow line and you lunatics flipping me the bird because I wouldn't give you a ride to McDonald's. Talk to the John Yoo. No babes in hot pants though, which sucked.

Or maybe I made that up and it was all babes in hot pants.

Guess you'll never know.

Hmm, I haven't written about the thrill of politics in a while.

Here ya go:


















I'm sorry, I didn't mean to angry up anyone's blood.