From the mailbag:
“After listening to you for some time now, I feel that ‘understanding’ what you’re saying is the LEAST of my worries.”
One man pretended to have his own newspaper, and then pretended to write to himself, as a reader.
Routine goo fields
are kept alive
by random lightning strikes;
a rebel controls his.
Sincerity: The first step to seriousness.
And on your birthday cake was sweetly inscribed:
“Revolutionist Thinking: Riding a tricycle with four feet.”
And in response, the city put on its cake:
“Parochial thinking makes THIS WORLD go round.”
And the mighty, local god of type-setting, ink-stains and jet-printers bellowed: “And lo, ya’ll, verily, verily and it-came-to-pass, that he who writes the book always has the last word. (Lo, and out.)”