I like the word meteorologist. I like to say it out loud: meaty urologist. I don't like urologists. The last one who worked on me left my sack looking like a spinach pizza. Meaty urologist. Hab harvests. Weather conferences. Packing up the grunions. Bazzukajoe hunkering after a giant sandwich made of super-chunk Jif.

This blog puts strange voices in my head.

"Hey, that's quite a bankcheck you've got there; I can tell right away it's not a rubber check but I'm sorry, you won't be able to cash it."