BIG MAC ATTACK

Yowling lackadaisically, scowlingly, unexpressively and prismatically— even adverbally—into the soft metal breeze that’s been shakin' hands with the night, 2 + 2 is firmly on my mind along with a wild and complex plan to bump off the Beastie Boys and any of their collegiate clones that might get in my way, I rise from my sweathardened white Corinthian leather hammock, caress Misrilou, my fave nymphette, who’s seated adoringly at my Puma-encased feet, watch as the red dingle balls nestled in her voidblack cornrows sway gently, and ponderously (well, hell, if you’d just drank yourself into a manic stupor so weird that you think of yourself as a 350 lb. iguana stoned on liquid paper, trying—desperately I might add—to get MTV on your stove, then you too might feel a bit prodigious) try to focus what’s left of my...m...y... my attention span onto these latest wispy intoxications of sound from the Mac...Fleetwood Mac, that is!