It's finally sinking it that the people who type things like "sex with fun and fussy" into Google had a little dyslexic moment with their Fs and their Ps. Although why you'd want to have sex with puns, much less fussy sex with puns, is beyond me.

The power of Christ compels me to list some more recent search results:

    "social retard" + cure
    picture old guy breastfeeding
    blow & goo
    mr. monkeybutt
    naked wet goths
    pictures of a shaved nut sack
    picture of cat poop cookies
    shakespeare's explanation of pants

Ever since the trip to Denver my diet has been just disgusting, just one long rollercoaster of fried everything and processed horror. I am eating a day-old Marie Callender's peach cobbler even as I write this, and I am thinking about finishing off with a Cadbury egg. My lower intestine feels squishy, fat, and lard-filled, and my teeth feel all crumbly like soda crackers. Somebody please make me eat a pound of wilted spinach every day for the next ten years and maybe then I'll have atoned for all that vile take-out Chinese.

Yes, Poetry Month is over (I think now it's National Breastfeeding Month, so everybody better hop to it), but a line from Dylan Thomas keeps running through my head -- "the force that through the green fuse drives the flower." It's a nice line for spring, I think, and May, and for taking acid and going to the park with an acid-trip buddy so you won't freak out. That's what we're doing this weekend, and I hope Jackson can keep it together; after all, somebody has to drive to the liquor store*.

* For all the latecomers, Jackson is not yet two years old, which is what makes that hilariously funny.
Also, click on my picture Ms. Vaguely Dissatisfied to enjoy some classic Life in Hell.