All right: it's almost April

This is the time of year when Aprille showers supposedly come one's way, or some shit. Not in Southern California, of course, but perhaps there is somewhere else on God's green earth which is not in fact Arrakis, Dune, desert planet . . . cue Kyle MacLachlan looking really intense while communicating with a giant worm in a somewhat suspiciously homoerotic yet bestialic (is this a word?) yet . . . oh god, who cares. It's a giant fucking worm. And it pops out of the sand (got to be uncomfortable with all those crevices, anyone who's ever tried to have sex on a beach like in all those movies where they're doing it in the surf will understand the Editor's point here) and then opens its segments . . . all I'm saying (and Dune is one of my favorite, favorite movies, David Lynch is some sort of deity, don't get me wrong) is that it's a little much.

Sidetrack officially over. April. Yes. It is undeniably spring, which means that the Editor feels a little remorseful for having only reinstated the year as of last week. What did the adoring public do during those cold, nonexistent months? Hopefully they soothed their sorrows with copious quantities of macerated, distilled and otherwise tastified mixtures of ethanol. That is of course how the Editor has spent the otherwise useless time.

Speaking of which, the Editor has consumed a fair amount of inexpensive grape-based ethanol this evening, so don't expect no sparkling wit or nuthin. In fact, the Editor's zombie-infested bedchamber awaits; I would merely like to state, since I promised such in the previous post, that I love everyone everywhere. The world is a good and happy place. The Editor is drunk.