fun with dick and/or jane

Our hallways are full of mole people, interested to the point of obsession in prompting some kind of psychic overload of our postepisodic dialectic.  At this stage of our collective development, most of our fishtails have fallen off, only to replace themselves almost immediately with spontaneously-generated rocket fins.  But what does this mean for us as a card-carrying, fire-breathing Race of chosen archons destined for no lesser ever-after than to burrow our nosecones in the warm, inviting pleats of the goddess-shaped sun?

Good question. A number of otherwise reliable “interpreters of the data” (or “dada”) would suggest that it has become the burden of the intel’ gents (and ladies) to perform most of the Real Thinking that occurs on this planet.  The falacious crumb therein, of course, regards not the treasured contents of the brainpan but rather the earry canal…in other words, philosophies and assessments may be allowed to ferment for the span of a human lifetime, but if their progenitors languish amongst the Voiceless, ain’t nobody getting their drunk on.

Like it or not, even the internet still gets walked around the block on a daily basis, connected by a short leash to the sure and gentle hand of a white man.  Foment ye rosebuds while ye may, or else get skunked by half a ton of commercial-grade weedkiller.