Speaking of death panels...
I remember back in the Seventies listening to a self-anointed "poet" arguing that murder was the most intimate experience possible, and wouldn't that be fun? It was like strolling through the Sacco & Vanzetti Echo Chamber at the Jack Kerouac Sealab Delicatessen, where a cigarette is a glass of 2%.
Maybe that was the year Squeakie Fromme was in. And now she's out. Seems almost sane, by comparison.
And speaking of non sequiturs, has anyone else noticed that Rachel Maddow's show on MSNBC is a Cialis-free zone†? I kind of miss the bizarre sitting-in-parallel-bathtubs fantasy‡, whatever that means.
†Except on the half hour...
‡I'm not familiar with the gin
those lords and ladies soak in;
But separate tubs of separate sins
just separate nights betoken.
Labels: Murder By Death Dept.