Today it is my pleasure. Allow me to introduce; allow me to fall; allow me to trance with you as you peel the skin from citric pulp in drops. Let's spend. I've only got two ands and one but, but I know that you and I can save the world with earplugs and muzzles. It was cut off, in the middle of word. A carefully placed insult to keep wasps in their nests, the Prime Minister is born again and blasphemy hits back on the answering machine. I called you, and you called names. So detailed that the Devil couldn't help lining each one's container with velvet. Where we'd like to be is where we were, and in the imagination—picture window of sweet green mountains, tart rain over baked sunrise, puffed-up pillowy thunderheads, and the promise of wildlife—fusty refusal takes a walk around the block looking for certain amphibians to emerge after a usual afternoon downpour. Don't you wish you knew that recipe for dates, or at least something to make, in the voice of Donald Fagen, tonight a wonderful day? Uh huh, that's the way of all roses, even at war. If one looks at seated patrons just so, nervous energies bonded into each bounce deepen the dark circles and dispel the notion that we're all in it together. With enough luck, you too can own this amazing new appliance, one that cuts through astral cords like OJ hitting a hole. Let's ask the mayors to declare this one dead, or blend citizen arrests into something resembling political action. Yeah, that's the thicket. Just as progressives will never be able to hold it together, public fascination with the brand of milk that Superman pours onto his corn flakes each morning will feed itself well into the next Ice Age.