The literature all but crackles with recurring imagery – not the least of which being the various chops and fillets seen clenched between Uncle Joe’s teeth. What an appetite on that guy!

I still have the night-shirt that I wore on that fateful Christmas Eve of 1989, and if I were a thinking man I would have worn it to BazzukaJoe’s party.

And as for that dancer’s patron man-stink, I was kind-a hoping that most of that had already been washed away in the on-stage shower stall. But admit it: when we were done with her, she sparkled.

But back to business. I’d like to use the power of the Internet to exert pressure upon a man named Simms. I urge him to step forward and tell us the tale of camping in the Floridian woodlands with that most expeditionary of naturalists… Steve (a man who is neither hunter nor gatherer – more like caterer).

Is it true that if you dig in the right part of the forest, you can find fresh sfogliatelle?