Well, my little piggies, for whom shall we devote our vote which devolved in a dissolved dessicant disappearing into a detached decanter?

My adherents to the religion known as professional American football tell me the gods of good fortune have pointed us to a victory for the challenger, the incumbent having lost his chances with the defeat of the Redskins yesterday.

On the eve, the cusp, the edge, the cliff, we bait our weighted breath (although some wait with bated breath (rather, bad breath flavored with garlic, chives, garlic chives, cilantro and a hint of jalapeño)), breaking our baked bread, unleavened at your leisure, pleasure, or religious fervor.

Humour me, that’s all I ask.

Take the millions of privately-owned property to train militants for a proxy war of pixies, except not in the heart of Dixie, exception being the heartland, or Penn’s forest, take your pick, and your beer in a Dixie Cup.

Better yet, another nor’easter long before Easter but not on Easter Island, with da plane, da plane.

More as it develops…