Deafdateday

Mash reruns barnacled Valu-Jet into cultural backwaters. The next two hours are
missing and unaccounted for. But oh, how, howling, I'll have labeled Ringo Starr
an unacceptable spokesperson. I'll have imagined tweezing the clown noses of
aging Budweisacres naming spots on the Blarney Cove bar for grey reflections of a
face. I'm as drunk (with power) as a calendar. It's between Humanite and
Gladiator, with the hopping mad gloves off and eyebrows resolute mittens clipped
not even sinisterly to the nipples. Maybe I'll go for a walk. Are there
unexplored cruxes out there? The Minister Louis X Disco Laundromat and Raw Batter
Bar promises a memorious eyecup. Hither hipster bindis. Molted fingertips anneal
to the nullities of corners. Quest for the separation of goo and grease. While
bah-bah bachelor attempts to sell his still unread Bob Woodwards. While types U
and I survive for weeks on the listings' registration marks. The even-numbered
streets go east.