The hot stove is stoked and the fires inside begin to warm …
I've swallowed the bitter fucking pill and have resolved myself to four more years of Karl Rove's brain — But I can't, I just fucking can't comprehend a season without Jason Varitek's sweetness.
Right. Spiraling budget deficits? I can hang. Global hegemony? I'm Chillin'. 162 games without a girl's eye view of those two moons of perfect man ass? I may as well move to Canada.
The holy wonder of Tek's gloot. The wondrous ass strength like a man who'd driven dogs thru the darkest strands of Alaska making it alone.
Nine innings of Tek's crouch and all night we could taste lemons in the wind.
Dear Theo, please sign Varitek or shall I bring you the sound of poisons? This is rain now, this big hush. And this is the fruit of it: tin-white like arsenic.
The 'like a man who'd driven dogs thru...' line is from Lifshin's poem 'Afterward,' and '... all night we could taste lemons in the wind" is from her poem 'Lemon Wind' both from the volume Cold Comfort: Selected Poems 1970-1996.
The title of today's strip and the line 'or shall I bring you the sound of poisons...' are from Sylvia Plath's poem 'Elm' in Ariel