I enjoy life here on the ant farm far more than most and not merely because I called shotgun in the clown car, though I did but didn't get it (Mitch McConnell beat me to it, I think) but because I've conceded Charlie Manson is right: no sense makes sense. Now I keep my ears tuned to the distant roar and enjoy the flow.
I was once like you. I'd learn of something, somewhere so stupefyingly dumb it was beyond ignorant and my mind would just seize up as I struggled to somehow impose order and logic to make sense of people and their actions for whom such definitions were never intended.
Submitted for your approval, Santos Rodriquez of Bridgeport, Connecticut, apparently a chemist of some kind working on a variant of his own choosing, phencyclidine, a very special Schedule II hell for those who don't care which road they're on.
From what I glean in the article, it doesn't seem likely Parents' Magazine will be stopping by to discuss that photo shoot for the June cover-may as well go ahead and take the plastic slip covers off the couch cushions in the living room. (I always like the way they stick to the back of your legs and upper thighs when you sit down during a visit on a hot August afternoon).
And in light of Phil Hughes' back problems, Brian Cashman of the Yankees may be stopping by to see just how much velocity and movement Santos had with that Bible he threw at his girlfriend and to evaluate the effectiveness of his exorcism or 'out' pitch.
Of course, all of this is easy for me to smile about. I wasn't the infant in his arms who was returned to a mother who knows people who strip and go jogging on the interstate. That's one lucky youngster, let me tell you-as lucky as a kid can be.