I act like a pseudo, flirted with being cowboy then wrapped it all under Cupid's wingtips. It doesn't matter. Like a single sperm cell in the Testes of Dreamland, I should have noticed that the big sky can yield to Eclitorial shitstorms because I'm the only brovary within splooging distance. Can I make a difference? Is there any difference between resting ones chin on ones hands and San Antonio? I remember withholding the derision I was imagining while word bombs were being flung from the shag rug of a 2 story colonial- it probably sped up my launch to this gonactical cradle of inner peace. Now there's the salient point: you can't make a confrontational eunuch into a troubled man unless he renuts himself. Ain't happenin'. No matter that my castralto arias are hummed silently substituting the word crabs to make it resemble You Blew the Pope stanzas from the summer of '62. You see the order of the universe to the highest advantage point emphasizing your brain is like the Big U and my U is simply not linked to terous. These moves have been actively shaped to suggest dendrites and the helix in my DNA, man. This ain't no foolin' around, well, maybe it surely is, Shirley. I crave sanity like a dry hump craves KY (not Kentucky). Here's where it is and OJ in the Bronco warned us that Al Bundy, like all of us, would one day be watching too much Cliven. Looks like we made it.