Man, it's hot.
Sweet merciful crap yesterday was unseasonably sweaty, Right Guard aplenty, that rhymes & you know that rhymes don't hang me for my crimes such as this café sunburn darkthroning in the woods with his chicken dinner a mere seventh of a fortnight earlier.
Man, it's not.
*Oh My Cthulhu
I did have a lovely dream last night as lovely goes for moi parce qu'I never dream about naked chicken dinners it's not fair, though, after coolly sloughing off the shock of sting from a giant psychedelic wasp, I watched Cryuff's miracle flight pock noted thespian Stan Stamenkovic into the great beyond blood & bone splattered across the continental drift, man, I loathed loathed that diving bastard. Kai Haaskivi motherfucker.
Cleveland has now decided, after years & years of low-key thee green boozeroony, to party for their right to fight.
Dear Moneyed Jerks of America,
For the low low cost of one-half of a quarter of a bomb (this is going to go well -- for the usual suspects, that is, chortle), you too can buy one gently-used Baltimore Poe House & Museum. You'll be the envy of all your friends at the next passive-aggressive charity gala. Don't make Li'l Edgar cry.
Ever your slacker,