Yesterday's For Mice & Gods.

So, y'know that burly, wild-eyed brute with shattered teeth and a crazy serpentine beard who wears a priest collar and a coke-spoon around his neck, the one who's come down from his mountain hideaway where he sits and monitors stray radio transmissions for secret codes concerning The Philosopher's Stone and is now beating you with a broken leg-bone because you keep stealing his thoughts about Zeus and Jesus knife-fighting on a Boeing 747 as it flies into a cathedral the size of the Empire State Building (before it was taken over by the Ant-People from Trinity, New Mexico in 1961 and turned into a stained glass monstrosity depicting the conception of The Old Ones in the twisted mind of the Mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred, a manoeuvre orchestrated by JFK's evil feotal twin in conjunction with the planetary alignment of Mars and the secret black satellite known only as Dagon which occupies an orbit further out than the Planet Formerly Known As Pluto where the Aryan Reptilian Aliens are recovering from their inter-dimensional war with the Future Aztecs), causing napalm and goats-blood to rain down on the zealot army below that's gathered in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the One True Avatar of Mammon, The Hidden Love-Child of Princess Diana and Michael Jackson, S/He Who Cannot Be Named Unless There's A Disco Ball Spinning A Thousand Tiny Stained Glass Reflections Of The Tortuous Scene Of Their Conception Across The Walls Of The Roller-Rink (known to his/her friends simply as 'Butch'), as s/he lifts the burnt-corpse offering of The Olsen Twins to jello-red skies and winged horrors that accompany the Inevitable Coming of Tiamat, She Who Devours All?

That's Clutch.

Imagine that live.

Yeah.

Mr. Brown goes to Peru tomorrow; I know that sounds like a title in a series of children's books, but it's true (and if he had anything to do with Young Adult Literature, it'd be more along the lines of A Boy's Introduction To Sodomy...). He's had his shots, and he's house-broken, so alla you folks down in Peru better be nice to him and not kidnap him and hold him for ransom and send little pieces of his anatomy to us to prove that YOU MEAN BUSINESS, because we have no money, so honestly, it wouldn't be worth your time. Just buy him drinks and he'll keep to himself. Mostly. I apologize in advance for any pregnancies that he might inflict upon your wimmins.

Did you hear that Florida is the Worst Place In The World now? Why? Because apparently it's illegal to masturbate there. No, really. That's crazier than anything I wrote in the previous paragraphs, plus it's just wrong. Colour me aghast.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go put my innards in cryogenic storage so that when future scientists with half-robot heads and strange, lustful thoughts about dolphins discover a cure for the damage I've done to myself tonight, I'll be ready to do it all again, only this time with more alcohol. Amen.