From: joemahoney1950@gmail.com   
      
   My like-minded lovers of the livid lichen, today's sermon deals with something   
   we all have on a daily -- no, a constant -- basis.  CRAVIN'S.     
      
   The otha day, I Pasta Joe had a CRAVIN.  You know what I craved?  ICE CREAM.    
   Warm, oozy, thick, milky-yellow (maybe an ubsettling tinge of pink) full of   
   chunks of God-knows what.  But I craved it.  Oh, I craved it like Mr. Fitts in   
   American Beauty.  I    
   craved it like a spiritual-not-religious man craves to impose Catholicism on   
   everybody in his vicinity, or like a child of Communists privately practices   
   McCarthyism.  Yes, I craved it.  So I hopped in the enormous SUV ("Splish"   
   went the chaya) and    
   headed on ova to Target's.   
      
   I raced, fast as my wobbly legs would carry me.  When I reached the ice creams   
   aisle, I was gasping, sweaty, and red-faced.  Same as always.  Then I did it.    
   I pondid the ice creams.   
      
   Vanilla (the proppa culla).  Choclit (the desiya'd implicatio).  Strawbrie   
   (red, swollen, and somewhat grotes=que).  Is there any way to combine all   
   three?  Yes!  Get em all an mix em!  So I heaved them, one pint afta anotha,   
   into the cot.  Ben & Jerry's.   
     Breyer's.  Cold Stone.  Edy's.  Not Haagen-Dazs; they're foreign & illegal.    
   Dairy Queer, Baskin-Robins, Friendly's, Turkey Hill. Heave-ho, heave-ho!   
      
      
   Then I heard it.  Two womans was talkin' in the video game section.  Talkin'   
   and debatin' whetha or ain't video games was a good idea for their little boy   
   Morton.  I stopped heavin' and listened closer.     
      
      
   "Video games," conluded one of the womans "are kind of like diapers.  It's   
   cute for a boy to play them when he's 1 or 2.  But if he's still using them at   
   6 or 7, something's wrong."     
      
   "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHH!" I roared, like the biggest,   
   hairiest, smelliest bear you ever saw.  I was gonna teach this woman a   
   LESSON.  Discpline, like a shoppin' cart fulla ice cream!  Like Mr. Fitts in   
   American Beauty!  Like a    
   narcissist who's only comftible with clones of himself and his fake wife.    
   Like poop in the pants!     
      
   "AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHH!" I bellowed again, and began pushin my cot in the   
   direction of the woman...   
      
   To Be Continued...   
      
   Joe "Spiritual not Religious" M.   
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
       
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)