In Which Your Humble Blogger rushes in where Angels would probably, you know, fly, or float on clouds, or just sit around with a harp and a Harp, chatting about those bastards zooming around on Red Bull.
In Which Your Humble Blogger, despite having decided that Mr. Mamet’s brain-dead screed wasn’t worth either arguing with or analyzing, steps into the dog shit.
In Which Your Humble Blogger has compassion, except for robots.
In Which Your Humble Blogger takes an idea, and applies it to another idea really hard to see which idea breaks first. Like hitting the toilet with the coke bottle.
In Which once again Your Humble Blogger marshals facts to prove a point, and the facts beat the shit out of me and run off, giggling.
In Which Your Humble Blogger points out what has been pointed out before, that women, children ‘n’ pro-hy-bitionists had best stay out of it. And by women of course I mean men.
In Which Your Humble Blogger makes some points that probably no Gentle Reader needs made, but still, just because you’re facing the choir doesn’t mean you have to sit down and shut up, does it?
In Which Your Humble Blogger doesn’t care if the man is actually a hedgehog in a fox suit, because i if the hedgehog can’t ever take the suit off and act like a hedgehog, what’s the difference?
In Which Your Humble Blogger judges the cover by the book.
In Which Your Humble Blogger cuts loose, footloose, kicks off his sunday shoes.