Epiphany

Kicking back in my cabin, planning on a relaxin' evening watchin' the Criterion Special Edition of STROKER ACE with my schnoodle-moffit, fresh tin of Kodiak at hand, my tricked out Vacuum Spittoon nearby--and by 'tricked out' I mean not only will it willingly accept my 'baccy-infused-salivary emissions but it will ALSO tell me the time, play my audiobook of my good friend Michael Landon reading the complete works of VC Andrews (especially stirring are his recitations of the passages involving any type of blood ingestion...something I heard he had personally experimented with and took voraciously to on the set of his program Highway to Heaven), AND repel up to 2500 forms of intergalactic Clap--when it dawned on me that for as worldly that I am, I have never been a big fan of humorous puppets...hell...puppets in general, to be quite honest. I 'spect it has something to do with the fact that I can't help but think about how damn Sweaty a fellow's fist would get crammed up into one of them wacky cloth and rubber constructs every time I sees one on the vid-screen. Sweaty Fist Thoughts running through yer brain will put any man ('cept maybe Henson and Oz) offa any form o' HAHA, you comprende? Which I s'pose goes a long way to 'splaining the omnipresent sour puss on my horse breeder, Ulysses 'Forearm Stains' Flaxthrush.