There once was a boy named Dan. He sat down in front of his computer and thought real hard. But on this day, he had nothing really to say. Dan thought, and he frowned, and he even tapped out a word or two, but nothing much came to mind. The big bad delete button ate all his work. Dan pouted and said; “foo on you, bad button.” But the bad delete button just laughed and told Dan it was his own fault.

Silly Dan. Only a Dummy-Butt sits at a computer with nothing to say.

The blank page mocked Mr. Dammit as he sat in silence contemplating this new quandary. Where had the words made off to? China-town? The casino down by the back alley? Perhaps they were sitting right now with a hot dame having a laugh on Dan’s behalf? There may have been a million stale stories to tell in this sinful city, but not one of them planned on spending a moment in this blogger’s thick skull, not today. What happened, Mr. Dammit wondered? And why in the Hell had he taken to referring to himself in the third person?

Three clues presented themselves to Mr. Dammit’s attention, a giant sucking sound somewhere in his head, or perhaps his heart, a sick feeling in his gut, and silly succotash filling the veranda with purple sounds and pie-happy smiles just like it was Thursday. Dan wasn’t entirely sure about the third clue, but he was pretty sure that it meant something.

Perhaps that something was an iconic relationship to the thoughtful imaginary which in its apparent absence effectively alluded to the very discursive framework which had given rise to its formation, completely over-determining the salient features of this particular subjectivity so as to elide the general significance of the mundane and occlude the purple succotash in a manner consonant with racist/sexist/heterosexist/picodegalloist ontologies firmly rooted in the praxis of neo-corporatist brownie projection.

Dan thought real hard. What was the line?

“You put hot butter on your brownie and you be havin’ a party in your mouth.”

Her breathing quickened as she responded; “will juicy flavors rave all over my taste buds?”

“They will indeed, baby,” he stood over her XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX well, XXXX XXXXXX XXXXX XXXX yes, yes! XXXXXXX XXXX XXXXX YES!!!!

XXXXXX XX XXXX but never in these pants XXXXXXX XX XXXXXXXXXX XXX XXXX

…sadly, these memories did little to help Dan find a thought worth inflicting on his own computer. Strangely, his fingers moved without thought across the keyboard anyway. Words appeared as ghosts upon his screen, words lacking thought, like bodies without a soul. The irony, Dan thought, the irony!

Irony Hell!

Irony is a fricking hot-buttered brownie.