A woman much more intelligent than me disagreed with my spelling of the word “come.”   She said it was spelled “cum.”  I told here come was in the dictionary.  She must have figured, Anything will get this guy off.

     Trip to consider but there are linguistic lines that even I will not cross.  Sometimes I do not know I have transgressed until it is too late.  Editing and re-writing are crucial to maintaining cordial relations with my friends.  They take me too seriously when I talk about their asses in print.  And their little…  “It’s a work of literature,” I proclaim to no one, alone and nearly passed-out on weekend nights.  Being a writer has its rewards.  That little worm at the bottom of the tequila bottle.

     So I know the taboo subjects but they are so outside the mainstream of general discourse that even I, your sensitive stoner-hippie alcoholic host, will not list them here.  I am afraid that discussing them will alienate me even further.  Oh, fuck it.  Here we go.

     Better not.  The island I’m on now is already pretty small.  I’m standing on one foot on one pebble in the middle of an immense, unforgiving ocean.  The imperative is not to drown.  The flotation device around my neck must remain pressurized, else it becomes a noose.  And the only hanging I like to do is out with my charming young female friends.

     Which brings us to…

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