In the sack: An orangeishness, more unnatural than Tang.

Wet: A plasticness of sorts.

The touch: Neutral.

The feel: Limoncello, lemon jello, the tropical stuff the gigolette put in her radiator, I'm sailing away, set an open course for the virgin sea I've got to be free, free to face the life that's ahead of me, zug-zug, you're the captain.

The magic of our lives:くろごまアイスクリン, the skunk over here will bring you luck, the pump over here comes with a truck.

Final verdict: Needs more enervation.

Saying that there are degrees of democracy seems like an abuse of language.

The New York Post is such a fine periodical.

This ain't the NY Post.

Your baby grows a tooth, then two, and four, and five, then she wants some meat directly from the bone. It's all over: she'll learn some words, she'll fall in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet talker on his way to jail. And you, your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue nothing. You did, you loved, your ass is sore. It's dusk. Your daughter's tail, and she wonders why her daddy is so sickeningly fat and only an associate professor at the state university.

Purse is like the Shrike, just nonchalantly plodding backward in time, saying things like « I'm just gonna go to New Jersey, » and then not being seen again until the previous year. Such is the mystery of Purse.