Chinese Noo Year

K, so I am bored with bein' dead.

It is way overrated, an' there are limited options for spiritual development of any kind beyond 24/7 spectral vapidity.

Thing is, I figured I'd take myself away for a while.

I am kinda busy right now, an' February is traditionally my time for engagin' in the worst kindsa slaughter.

Only she has been so cool this year, so I wanna go play.

Taggo is hangin' out with the wombats in sunny Melbourne, Davo is reminiscin' about his days as an eyeball deliverer, an' Claude soon gonna be the proud father of a coupla cats.

Also: Jill got a birthday.

This is no time to be drinkin' deep of the underworld's stagnant swamps or bein' caressed by vampiric incisors to the point of total bodily perforation. (yy -- it can wait.)

'Specially not in this stoopid skirt.

(If you are plannin' on adventurin' down below, waterproof pants are a must, btw.)

So, hey -- it is Chinese Noo Year, an' we all gotta make with our inner monkeys till next February...





Accordin' to legend, monkeys are super mischievous, which mebbe explains why baboons got that 'unremittingly spanked' look about 'em.

Weird thing is, the Chinese view the Year of the Monkey as onea the unluckiest of the twelve.

Dunno what this means for 2016 beyond excessive baitin' of repressed disciplinarians by all mannera fools.

Coolest thing is how the monkeyin' kicks off in sync with an Aquarian Noo Moon.

So it is prolly a good day to spark up a year of dangerously simian fire with some unashamed sportin' of your uniquery and obliquery.

Those are the signals I am gettin' right now as I clamber from outta death's pit.


Ima gonna go ponder alla this over a banana an' a few hard hittin' rounds with Emily Dickinson.

I love her books.

They are so spankoswanko.

Tellya, if you wanna bring out your inner baboon, she is the tops.




Let moderate swayin' commence -- with a view to buildin' to a shockingly athletic crescendo...