The answer must be to mainline Imitrex straight into the skull. Let the gibble jabble mix with the willy nilly, then you’ll find him going down the drain. Through the twists and turns, then you’ll come out doing the back stroke down the great, green, greasy Limbpopo River, if you know what I mean. Well, then everything will make sense. Especially as you give Laura a well-oiled and bemused grin. Her arms will wave and her gums will flap non-sensically as if they were tied by strings, just like Boosh, and being pulled by an unseen puppet master some where in the dankest recesses of some clandestine diabolical bunker, three miles below the low-tide mark, where scum sucking zygotes and lower forms of humanity hide their worthless asses from the light of reason and reality. But you will not be afraid of her or his madcapped gesticulations and giggling genuflections, for you are the annointed one. The one which has been annointing hiz sef’ all afternoon with the bubbly carbonated incantations of the Mead of the Druids. Some call it Breesky, some calls it Suds, you may even call for the Bud. Newts, salamanders, and mud puppies alike will all march past not only in astonishing formations (the judges liked what they saw!), but in impressive numbers, despite being dispirited over the lingering Korean black dog meat boycott still in effect. And that nasty, nasty stick of butter never materialized until it was time to retire for the evening.