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Friday, October 14, 2005

Intern August Strindberg reports from the cold recesses of the Norra Begravningsplatsen (4 real, bitches!!!)

Greetings and condolences. I spent the hottened summer awash in fetid pig-vomit. Were I to call that a new experience, I would merely be engaging in wishful thinking. But autumn is thankfully upon us, and thus I re-don my damp, infested overcoat, gray and mustard-stained, entirely unlovely except for -- what's this? behind the lapel? -- it is a cobalt sorceror, toying with an engorged orange orb!

Yes, friends, a new season has arrived. The young savior, his salad days behind him, has packed up the French dressing and is now panning for purple gold. Moses (or Abraham) would not come to Cold Mountain, so Cold Mountain has come to Moses (or James). But not to worry! For incites abound, Calvin Booth rebounds, I observate, Jarvis regulates, Ruffin titrates, Caron Oprahtes, Etan poetates, Jared purses his lips pensively.

And if the Post of Washington is to be believed, we may just have a new Ruffin in our midst, except replacing chemical engineering with magical imagineering. I of course refer to Awvryee Storeyy, the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Here's to ye, young Aywrvee!


posted by wizznutzz