Blooming like some self-righteous faggot onion in Bloomington, this post reeks of elephant tears and crocodile arms. All the way to Columbus, Ohio and you met the wrong professor after all. Crawling up an erstwhile unsuspecting sphincter like Richard Gear-Shaft's gerbilicious pomegranate seed stopping pregnancies and causing them like so many paradoxical pharmaceutical drug interactions from yesteryear or yesterday: they're all fucking poison. Pour uninhibition in with the baba and ladle it out with the spooge. This is a play on worms. The best longterm bet is on green; chlorophyll will outlast every last arrogant one of us. Blooming with the green thumb your mother stole from you and your father stole from her, the squirrels will have their revenge, gnawing away at civilization, scritching towliwinks on the turntables of Armageddon, which is to say Megiddo, which is to say every battlefield is the last one for someone who doesn't make it home. All eschatology is immanentized, which is to say that each one of us is responsible for every bad thing that happens in the world. You rationalizers will say, "But also: every good thing." How is there any good when the police shoot people for no reason, when the American Government is blind to its own atrocities, when seventy-year old assholes stomp on some poor kitty's legs with steel-toed boots? Theodicy and all the fucking perennial problems are so fucking cliché, you say. At least you can still have an orgasm, Kemosabe.