As anyone who reads this blog knows, my knickers are in a knot about WMD. The current fracas betwixt George Tenet and David Kay reminds me of something I once heard Louis Farrakhan say: “You are like masturbators, playing with your sex organs while the world goes to hell”. Seriously. He actually said that on prime-time television. I’m not making that up. Trumps a boob, eh? Anyhoo… I was searching around for something to capture the essence of what Mr. Bush & the WMD fiasco has engendered in my heart, and after dismissing some rather cliché Bob Dylan lyrics, I came upon this passage from an old, but essential, classic novel:

. ..thou hast suckled me with a bitter milk: my moon and my son thou hast quenched for ever. And thou hast left me alone for ever in the dark ways of my bitterness: and with a kiss of ashes hast thou kissed my mouth.

I’m kidding! I don’t really feel that bad. My god, relax. As Bill Maher once said to a guest, “You oughta take a crowbar out and pry open your mind!” Or, as Howard Dean said to Tim Russert last Sunday, “I don’t support that crap!” No, I’m afraid I need to shelve my plangent homilies about Bush (as well as my anthropophagal salivating over Arlo’s glabrous and lubricious flesh), and turn my attention instead to this infant pimple on the right side of my neck. The problem with having a pimple on the neck is that there is no bone mass to mash the furuncle up against and it is therefore exceedingly difficult to extract the innards of the thing without transforming the surrounding epidermal area into a rudilent raspberry indistinguishable from a sloppily administered hickey. Just a reminder: what’s important is always (to some degree) a matter of perspective.

UPDATE: Arlo's flesh is not glabrous. I doubt it ever was.