Ladies and gentlemen of the goblosphere, I would like to introduce to you a dear friend of mine, a compelling little creature and entirely beyond mythology, sicknasty. If I habitually wore shirts with breast pockets, I would keep him there and nothing else--little Pinsof resting his bearded cheek in the crook of my nipple, his vertebrae bumping against my heartbeat. A pretty girl would ask me to borrow a pen and I would fiddle in my pockets and brush Pinsof's eager body with my finger. My heart would sigh and I would suddenly remember that I needed a pen for this girl and accidentally swallow my gum or something. Thanks, David.
And as the girl recedes back into the
mystery zone, I glance down at my breast pocket and say, "Well, I guess it's just you and me, Pinsy." But the pocket is empty. I raise my head in time to see old D.P. dangling from the hem of the girl's skirt, bellowing like an ancient warrior as he hauls himself up to seize his glittering prize.
And so as budding virgins shall we welcome David to the fold. So let it be written, so let it be done.
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