The rites of holy matrimony and unsuspecting fools

Fill an average Datsun with the following and set it to frappé: a Spaniard, a Jew, a Jamaican, and a mutt. A clean suicide. I distinctly recall a delicious bottle of Merlot provided by none other than the TM Sisters starting my shenanigans with my pops' savory Marsala chicken this evening... where it went wrong after that, I have no clue. Maybe it's the fact that divorce, not unlike crack cocaine, is one helluva drug. So the slow turners turn in some charity work for a fallen comrade... Jesse and I did the unthinkable by watching two-and-a-half hours of soullessness under the masquerade of fanboyness... there was laughter, there were comments, there were nachos, there was gasoline hidden in a tea bottle, and PJ kept it in his seat without the urge to dance. But I digress -- maybe it tickles me a bit, but some genuine nastiness might not be entirely undeserved. Wax you saucy softy! And the apologies for drunken dials, be forewarned, will not be forthcoming. Our assisted shenanigans have hit a new plateau: loud actions and empty words, our responsibility is nil -- we skip upon the trees of paradise. We kept the pavement out of our mouths, we met Mimi and Michelle, we hopped, PJ skipped, and the nausea crept up like acid reflex. Commit the following to memory and know it to be the antidote to marital bliss: Lionel Tate is not your husband.

[In my office Elisha -- I wish I had better words, but my mouth don't got no spellchecker.]

From the field, at 4:38 am, Saturday May 27th, year of somebody else's Lord 2006, your humble turner. Snail guts decompose slower. Petrochemicals. Diminuendo. I stave my words so you can sleep in the torrid mess you've made and me, shit baby, I ain't got no time.