The Obscure

I've been pacing around my house for two hours. This wool sweater is as itchy as my ass, which is itchier than usual tonight because I am wearing this wool sweater; a wool sweater that is made from the Miracle Fleece of the Itch-Sheep, the itchiest sheep ever to grace the face of God's green... place. The sheep is so itchy that by the time it comes of age, it has killed itself. It's a miracle they aren't extinct. Hence: Miracle Fleece. You can't put a price on a miracle, except in this case. The price was two for twelve dollars.
And I said, "Here I go again, on my own!" *GUITAR!*
I actually stole the Itchiest Sweater Ever from my Father's fabled Wall of Discomforts, which is held together by golden studs, and supported by beams of caring.

The only problem with opening everything with a 13 inch long knife is that you break pretty much everything you open. Now, that's only an issue if you are opening something you want--therefore, the trick is to open everything you DON'T want open, thereby preserving the things you do want open in a pristine state of safe godhood in the Valhalla of the Christian Saints alongside the Many Large Bulls of Antioch.
See? It all makes a strange kind of sense now, doesn't it?
And I said, "Here I go again, on my own!" *GUITAR!*
That is the only part of that horrible song that I know, and I will sing that one part until the day I grow bored with it, and then I will crumple it up and toss it away like a used Taylor.
I am going to continue this facade of blogly kingship until fatigue can win the day and overrun the neurotic defenses of my body. It's like a million microscopic Woody Allens are running around inside my bloodstream, making everything difficult to deal with, and marrying their stepdaughters.
"How could something like that happen in a... World?"
I don't know what that quote is from, but I know I saw it, and I know I laughed at it.
OH! SAVING SILVERMAN! OH! THAT'S THE MOVIE IT'S FROM! YES!
Jack Black said it. Oh man, I am so happy. Oh god.... Oh god, yes. I never figure things like that out, they just bother me for hours until I cut my head open and chop them out. You have no idea how satisfying actually figuring something out is, for me.

Friends, Gentlemen, Colleagues, Fellow Financial Advisors for the Reagan Administration, I have come here with a word. A word of interest, a word of power, a word so ominous and large that the very rocks that would compose a giant stone statue of the word would tremble with perfectly understandable fear at their own large purpose; were such a statue, of course, ever made (one can only hope). A word so welcome in Russian households, a word so vital to several traditional hebrew dinners, a word so inexplicably unintelligible that no man has yet to understand it, yet all men seem drawn to it. Yes, this is the word of words, it alone can be spoken at the feet of Honest Abe, himself. Someday I, and Bill Cosby, will confront the statue of our great country's mascot, and the earth will shake, and the sky will cry out and learn complicated trigonometry from my friend Will, who owns a Pontiac. It is a nice Pontiac, and it is also the purveyor of the apocalypse. My loss, my gain, my mettle-detector, to find out exactly how much pride is welcome in a land like this, and to kick out every last foreigner on their way to safety. If they wanted safety they should've made their own America. Weird. My eyes have just seen something that is quite obviously in front of me; and my wife, the Baroness De Fance-Slacks, has attacked my field of vision with the ruthlessness of 2 average sized panthers who haven't eaten in at least 45 minutes. I can not even die with dignity, I must be bored by stupid digestively-oriented wild cats beforehand. Then again, learning how to drive on a snowy night like this while being torn apart by panthers doesn't sound like too bad an idea.
Not too bad an idea at all.