Curled up in a zero gravity position watching the pagent, you can't help wondering if the ones you watched when Starsky met Hutch were so finely honed. You almost want to sing out "this is nothing compared to the Nixon days". I mean we were the enemy not just the librul snobs who happened to like the other guy. You never imagined that your days of being a dad were going to come back in memory as if you were Joe Flaherty in Freaks and Geeks and now the derangement known as partisanship makes citizenship come across like the velour rope at Club Shiznit that only newbies pay attention to. It's OK to talk shit but must we restate the obvious ten different ways as if it's new insight? Sheesh - putting a bowling ball in the toilet isn't the same as putting the hardest thing you have where she goes to the bathroom. Oh Violet, your film-like petals make foot dragging seem not only appropriate but a cosplay from when Kookie needed to wash his comb. In the dream, we wake up and Floyd is the village idiot instead of Walter and Mimi Rogers racks the balls at the poolhall even though those watching have never been in a poolhall. The single edge razor blade we keep in the tray in the garage is just for removing excess grout, not facial hairs or especially not emo. Doesn't matter if Gillette approves or Penn still has your transcript on file. It's over, Johnny, the days of paradise under motive candle light defiled by vanilla fragrance essential oil. We won.