I don't know, you tawny buoy, I'm never pickled

Let the record show that any opinions or allegiances I held, whatever the subject or cause, prior to this post, are now "one with Nineveh and Tyre!" (Kip: tipling)

And let it show that, and at warped-and-woofed, gear-shredded, over-driven accelerando, with every post. I hate being my own bitch enough as it is - let alone cut-price last-call rent-boy to my own ever-unmasked delusions of yesterminute; I don't need to drag behind me like Marley's string of cashboxes the divers dust-magnetic dogmas that, though they entertained me indeed at the time for thirty minutes or less, now sit at the back of my moral fridge like the tub of green sour cream left over from last week's beyond-decadent one-man, three-legged orgy.

You newcomers*

*Sorry, Miss, newcomer, and they both are ripe and lovely indeed, the juiciest, I'm sure, in this whole farmer's market: your cantaloupes look succulent, too, I merely noticed your honeydews first - oh, so sorry: Sir ...

here deserve the best disclaimer I can draft on such short endowment. And now that I have something just barely long enough to hang my propeller beanie on, I'm off to fight in the International Brigade of Fascists for Freedom, 

as a stretcher-bearer and procurer of six-foot Nordic escorts: Our Boys Need Tall Tales And Even Taller Tail!