I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Wednesday, November 27, 2002
Yams...
Stupid-ass yams. Yams are retarded. Yams are wrong. They're sweet! What the hell? If it looks like a potato, it should taste like one. I am God, and that's my new law. That'll be my eleventh commandment. Thou shalt not eat nasty yams. I'm gonna buy a yam tomorrow and burn it in the backyard in protest. Do you only eat free-range yams? Yams are like the distant, red neck cousin of the wonderful potato. If I had a gun, I'd shoot a yam next time I saw one. I'm a yam racist. I'm anti-yam. I'm going to buy the web domain Godhatesyams.com. I yam what I yam, and that's all that I yam...stupid Popeye.
Thanks, Diz...
Love, Jean Claude Van Yam...
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