A Thunder-Mug For The Comic Poets
You’re furious. I never taught you to sing. You carry rocks in your head and pitch them. Without warning. Happy drunk. You’re furious. I beg you for sin. I beg your skin. You buy a whore. Don’t give her water. You’re furious.
Also on that previously-mentioned Willamette Week page, you’ll note links to both my and Jack Bogdanski’s “endorsement” posts. But fear not. If our joint radio appearances failed to cause the universe to implode, print proximity shouldn’t be much of a worry.