Candied Camera

Catch, 22. Ah, you fucking dropped it ya ‘tard.

Get into Wilco. Get into Yankee Hotel Foxtrot by Wilco. Get into my pants. If only my pants had written a ground shattering alt-country CD you sure would be in them. Curse you, whoever you are.

Pleasures of the flesh and the sea, swimming, lazily, in both. Clenching my fist just to see if it makes a difference, in a larger sense, because the atomic bomb didn’t, so we need some new weapons.

Lately I’ve been busy. This is probably not of interest. I’m sure you come here for what? For the font? Is it for the lack of images of Christ? Heck, why do you visit, gentle gentiles? Or chewy jews for that matter? Why are you an extraneous part of my life on a frequent basis!?

Let’s play ball then folks?

When I say Hey! You say Huh? When I say Michigan Fisheries Departmental Meeting, 12.30pm, Tuesday, you say Huh? Then we take Morrissey’s advice and hang the DJ.

Oh, get into the Smiths. Actually don’t, if you do, you’ll be hooked, and they are the most powerful of all addictions. Don’t risk the dark plunge. Unless you like it at the bottom of the black pool…