Commence. head-scratching. now.

purple is a fly i never thought i'd own. it's a blammerific fabulousity that my mother never doubted suited me. WHY? because purple was always her favorite color. carpet-purple-curtains-purple-dresses-purple-myrtle-purple-people-eater. it begs the question.

dif-fur-ent-ly than blue begs the love of my life-love, cookie monster. "oh, for the love of cookie monster," would my grandmother exclaim! "for the love of cookie monster!"

NO. Scratch that.

Scratch what?

"go scratch your ass," gramma might actually. say, that is. might. actually. say. familyism. 40 in a kitchen on a sunday afternoon. maybe brooklynism, going nether to scratch. maybe 66th-street-ism. 4th from the corner.

or all things 1159.

"11:59!" screameth the mozzarella mob before ball-dropping. before the bells. 1159. a house of yesterdays.

rendezvous on the white wall. hide behind the garbage cans.

duck.

Ducky is coming. And he's going to tease me.

but scratch "for the love of cookie monster." scratch. off the scorecard. (Henderson and his god-for-effin-saken hammie, what's the good of season tickets with a team of prima donnas? next year, get a puppy.) or down his back. hiiiiiis. back. MINE. Replace with:

more likely Meema-sim, "what's that got to do with the price of fish?" what, indeed.

Reply: "fat gives you fat," crusty-burnt potatoes are worth a flying elbow.

brats.

AND

it has everything to do with the price of one pair of yellow-wheeled rollerstakes. and a poster of Miss Piggy.

tutto.

Stir and enjoy.