Clap your hands say fuck yeah that's over

Sitting on the can early [read: early] Friday morning feverishly watching the brine bubble up out of pore after pore, my body's tubing behaving as if I had just downed a fifth and a box of prunes, c'est-à-dire, the Compleat St. Patrick's Day, but without all that pesky socialization.

To celebrate my victory, some select pieces of delicious ear candy. To celebrate yours, that I didn't go into even more detail, feel free to suggest others.

It is almost Halloween, after all

Magic 8-ball says

Blah v aw yiss, or, is this thing on?

Ye Olde Ænglisc footie starts in the morn [ed. note: en plus, the Slab is closed, not permanently, sadly, not that my bank account heralds future world traveler], a boon for this bane of sociability. I should just fatten up & grow a mountainous beard already. No peaks 'round here, though plenty of valleys badoomboom, & since I can't swing that local abode graced with a Wizard Tower, murky meditation 'tis twixt ventures midst sky & wilderness masquerading as steel & glass. If I play my sorcery right, perhaps a foray into grass.

No, I'll wait for the obligatory pot jokes though I don't mean that at all.

Done? Good. Title tip: don't lay any quatloos on West Ham. Mmmm, ham.

The dead zone, or, heavy handed

Ocean's have them, so does this on-rails gig. Ids low & high tiptoe through conscience, the real magnet tar pit trap. Benadryl Nyquil quill, post-sick (an epilogue, not this), sick of this a bit or more. Wotan tomorrow, or not.

What will be is heat, the complaining of yours truly, the eye rolling of ghosts & those that are flesh but it's hard to tell at times, swampy skin & salted corneas, senses adrift like a boat on the ocean, a dead zone. What, too heavy handed?

Find some tulips & get tiptoeing.
♪ I'm a librarian (not really) & that's okay, I sleep all night & I sleep all day ♫
Books checked out to grad students are due on August 20th.
CTHULHU IS WATCHING

If we all human sacrifice real hard, maybe he'll devour NATO.
No, this is not a political post.
An imaginary real beast from beyond the stars eating empire is a chortle.
Please fucking keep your 2012 stuff under ice.
Merci.

Some silences are more golden than others

The great dilemma of our time, & by ours I mean mine, & by time I mean get sleeping, stupid, 'twas solved long ago, satisfaction or no moot like a slack of Anglo-Saxons, & this is a library to boot oooh meta, so shhhh.

Keep waiting for that stanza to close itself. How does one keep mushroom clouds handy? Perhaps that's the great. Hey, for Mordenkainen's Disjunction, I'd settle.

Fiddle-dee-dee, that will require a tetanus shot or eleven for 'tis only the month of the two-faced

It's not me, it's you. 

After a Sammy Hagar unplugged weekend, still unpacking The Google readership [ed. note: I really do try & check out everyone's shit & shit-to-be-clicked 'cause beats the alternative of "work," what a ringing endorsement, you say, relax, I say, your place will never be as useless as this holder, be proud], & I conclude, verily, this: silly season means jack, homes. The Year of Quetzalcoatl is l'année de nouveau tuneage [ed. note: & some choice remasters that were probably released last year, but I'm slow], as are all previous & future years.

Coronary corollary: The wisdom of crowds as oxymoron: the crowd is a toxin-wrapped package of flawed sausage links, as are thee, as is me, & if member-shaped members of this collective were to replace the current PTBs, same shit, different names, more or less panache TBD. Any gang above a baker's dozen is doomed to shiv spines various & sundry. Go do something better with your time, as will I after I finish this negative iota contribution to learned discourse, such as delving into necromancy in order to resurrect Zombie Harry Clarke so he can pen a fresh line of graphic novels.



I know 'tis not new. I don't care. Thanks for trying.