When you’re as drunk as a skunk, you can usually blame it on the brandy. Or the lack of restraint on that seatbelt you’re wearing, you goddamned backseat driver. If this Star Trek video doesn’t hurry up and end, I’ll probably dream of Captain Kirk swinging from vines, picking up the ladies in the forests of Vulcan (pre-apocalyptic sun explosion), like a caveman, his toga tatters flipping off the breeze like tiny little fingers. He always did love the ladies. Especially had a kink for those hot, sexy-ass ears. But the truth of the matter wasn’t the Vulcans. It was the Romulans with their schemes and machinations. Machiavellian, if you will. Brandy snifters shattering under the weight of hefty anger and occasional horniness had nothing on those badasses, green blood or not.

I understand Machiavelli was an Italian gentleman of modest means and excessive voter turn out. If not for him, how would those Russians have ever gotten away with selling ice cream tax-free in Mexico? THEY WOULDN’T HAVE. Trust me. I know big words and bigger Russians. But despite Machiavelli’s escalations of capitalism in war-torn luxury apartments, he never could get it right, the poor bastardo. It was like cream pies all over again, except the cream wasn’t cream. It was CREAM. The kind that comes from a dingus hole, if you catch my blatant drift. Oh, to float along the currents and set adrift on memory bliss like those ancient people from the 80s. Before the dawn of p.m., it was ante meridiem, if you believe the papers, which I do not.

Even in the darkest meridiems, you can still find Saurian brandy in some of the stores that prescribe to nondisclosure agreements, patent pending. If this throbbing in my ankle doesn’t stop, I will go to that store and arm it with floggers and shotguns and Saurian brandy bullets. That’ll learn the fucker. And his momma too.

One of these days, I’ll see the ballet in Spandau. I hear it’s quite tantric, if a little dated. They have a song called “Sudoku,” which is a spin-off on Galadriel’s Scrabblewoman wings. Personally, I find it rather offensive for them to be discussing her “wings” out in the open, but whatever. I’m not the costume designer.

Ah, Saurian brandy, you cure my ills with delightful metaphors set in strange lands brushed with red iron rocks in sedimentary poses, freshly licked by the tongues of the perverted sea. Next time I visit, I’ll do you the honor of a toast with butter and a thin layer of Vegemite. A little dab’ll do ya. Preferably pita toast, by the by. That white shit has nothing to do with the world in these delicately balanced hours of wakefulness and thankfulness, slipping into dirges at dusk and freewheeling poetry at dawn. You make me want to juggle dildos interspersed with knives, pointy ends down. Cuts on the sleeves, but my are palms clean.

You win, Saurian brandy. Enter the dragon. If you dare.