Steely Dan sang it. For the past week I have lived it. To say it hasn't hit even the most casual freak is ignoring the fierce breath of Mama Earth. 5-10% humidity be damned. Physical activity was considered futile due to the cotton-mouth daze I was subjected to tolerate. Knowing this (after becoming a victim of it), I needed an evening to take stock of where we stand.
Did I break my nose again? Is that's what has happened? Am I going to look like someone from the "B" line of the St. Louis Blues? Or is it these winds? It's so dry up there, powder turns to paste. Some people get upset when those things happen. When someone coughs and things go elsewhere...you're driving, and you have to put out a fire with a bottle of Heineken. We're going to have to stick to Jimmy Beam. He'll make it work. But it'll be a duo, swimming buddy - there's no fiesta this weekend. Nature is having none of it.
You can call me Howard Beale. We're a week away from a network, and the skeptics to well wishers all have their own feelings on Walt's empire. Look, I had people telling me they were buying a certain Japanese brand because I worked here. I'm never going to see Monsters, Inc. Ever. So, with that understood, let's try to change things. In the words of Zappa, "I can fix it, but I need to get inside."
Ay, the cargo just arrived. The pasta exploded in this box...its authenticity is already in question. I've got this stuff all over; it's ruined the T shit. I'm not even touching the cap or golf balls.
Let's toss that ball around, get some air before we turn to sand.
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