For yon months now I have been adrift in the snaggly whorls of the clenched pubis, hearing only echoes of ambiguity from our belov’d Wiz-Ards. Amidst the recent Stellar Hiatus, I freed myself from the succubus, via an ingenious plot hinging on an ingenious riddle exploiting the odd confluence of the two Jeffs (Malone and Ruland).
ANYHOO, here I am now, still dampened with the swampy muck of inevitable depravity, momentarily free to delve into aesthetic pursuits, but haunted by the sure knowledge of my impending self-soiling. I wanted to take this opportunity to check in with Sir Darvin and his syphilitic hoards. AND CHECK IN I HAVE NOW DONE. I can make no head nor tail nor hook nor crook of the Wiz-Ards this season. Perhaps confusion, ignorance, darkness—perhaps these are our most natural states.
Clearly Calvin Booth, he of the sad eyes and a jaw full of sorrow—clearly Calvin knows the agony of the known unknown. Young Andray, flee this coil, flee like a zephyr, like the bullet you did not flee before. Head for a land where feelings are not expressed through cakes, where dressing is not French nor otherwise, where Legler is not ever. Leave us to rot in the metaphorical soiled overcoats that lurk beneath our literal soiled overcoats.
Thanks, August! So good to have you back, even if the stench of decay is overwhelming the office and making us "THROW UP IN OUR MOUTHS" (new WizzNutzz slogan!!!). Take two Prozacs with a bottle of bleach and call us in the morning!!!