Breaking the Heisman rushing record with the thousand-yard thousand-year lexaprofessional stare, breaking down walls of bureaucratic numbskullery, you slumber this eve in Fuckingham, Illinois. (Midwestern freezing rain renders even $37,000 Nipponese windshield devices obsolete.) This latest oasis of mediocrity has lent itself quite quiltingly apropos for the Clare Quilty Quiltingham of Bumfuckminster overnighting with the shivering plebs. The televisionary oracle renders pap as unusable as the dactylic fingerlickingly good riffs spewed forth by tripod-straddling MILFs from yesteryesteryear. The inebriating intoxicating theurgicating fluids are as good now as then, the invention of distillation notwithstanding. You now have enough sperm in your unter-regions to spawn a planet's or plantation's worth of little needmachines, but you'll save it for the oracle of Lincoln, your matrix of memory and forgetting combined, a twenty-first century lovebot designed for you by the conspiracy of history. You've taken like a freshly suckled pup to these king-sized beds, but reality feels more like a cuckolded papa when you remember the mustard seed of a savior responsible for putting every hotel-room desk in front of a mirror. Don't forget to be overly self-analrapical on "vacation," crabs-rangoon-eating passers-by. Some indistinct miles east of East Saint Louis, you've hit the proverbial hyperbolical rock on the bottom of metaphysical longing. Shouldn't there have been a phallus in this post?