Thursday, July 31, 2014

Blast My Nethers, But Don't Mess Up My Bangs While I'm Not Looking at You

By: Kelly McClure

Recently Cosmopolitan Magazine, the go-to source for realistic life info for young mothers and soon to be ex-wives, published a thing on their homepage called "28 Lesbian Sex Positions to Blow Your Mind." After seeing this title come up in my Twitter feed the first thing I thought was "count down to something about scissoring," and then my brain became flooded with curiosity over just what sort of sex Cosmo thinks lesbos would have, and further ... what kind of lesbo sex they would find to be MIND BLOWING. 

As a full-time "one of those" myself, I've had all manner of lesbo sex ranging from "I'm not sure you've been here before, can I help?" to "Here's a kit of dental tools that I bought at a dollar store off the highway, do something with them." So I felt super prepared to read their list and make at least ten minutes of fun of it. I was almost disappointed to find that the MIND BLOWING sex positions they offered up weren't too bad. Vanilla, level one, or not really a thing, sure. But they didn't say anything about sensually braiding hair, which somehow I thought was for sure going to be in there, along with erotically talking about horses.  The illustrations  for each position though ... we need to talk about. 

I see you, Cosmo trying to work out some hot pink version of a femme/soft-butch dynamic. I can almost taste your "That girl's hair is so short though ... should we add some bangle bracelets?" afterthought. 

This to me looks like two ladies who had one too many $3 beers at happy hour, but then I'm like "What is she licking?" 

They switched to blue in their color scheme here because blue is the color of business. I don't know what kind of business is happening in this picture. This kind of looks like a naked blonde lady helping a drowning victim.

Back to pink again because oral is just so LOL silly. Look at everyone's hair. Notice how their eyes are drawn so tightly shut that they practically look like those X's used in comics to tell us that a person is dead? They're like "I'm never opening my eyes about this. This is so mind-blowing that I'm a lesbian now."

Creeping up on a naked girl and shouting "HOOTY HOO!!!!" Into her butt cheeks is for sure funny, but it's probably gonna result in that thing where the girl playfully slaps you in the head and calls you a goof while giving you side eye and having an inner monologue about how she's gonna stop answering your texts.

Not sure what they're doing here, unless the blonde girl is wearing a ... no ... Cosmo isn't ready for those. This is about horses isn't it? Pro tip: I could think of something way better she could be doing with those heels. 

This just looks lazy to me, like "Get off that chair and eat this. I know you worked eight hours today, but my arms are tired." Also ... look at her bangs. She's like "Oh God, I don't want to have to wash my hair again tonight. I'm annoyed?" 

Are we in a fight?

I'm noticing a pattern here. Most things that have something to do with a butthole have a blue background. Blue is for butthole. This particular position is new as it has never personally occurred to me to rub my butthole on someone's ribcage intentionally. I'm sure it's happening accidentally, but not as a sex act. More like "Oh, sorry, I just rubbed my butthole on you while I was reaching for this thing." 

This is just a wasted opportunity. Also I think her heel is lodged in the other girl's shin. 

Okay, so Cosmo IS ready for strap-ons. They also, apparently, have a fantasy about using one on Ronnie Spector? 

This one is called "My boobs hurt because my period is coming. Let's watch Gossip Girl on the couch. Can I lay on you?" 

Lesbos just really are constantly scissoring in sports bras. (Scissoring isn't a thing. Scissoring is basically like humping a stuffed animal, but on top of a person who you could actually be humping.)

When I really love someone I put where my pubes would normally be right on them and then make them stare at me. 

I'd be mildly irritated if someone flopped their hairdo onto my head while we were doing "The Sexy Spider." I'd be like "Do you need a hair tie?"

Are you okay though?

"I used a new soap this morning and I think it fucked me up. Does this smell weird to you? Ow, my boob hurts."

Everyone always starts busting out this move after watching that episode of 90210 where Brenda finds a lump

She's got all these ties but only that one pair of heels. That's not real. Also, the blonde keeps re-applying her lipstick and the brunette whose pompadour got knocked down is like, "I don't care." 

"I bought some new heels!! They're black. Can you see them? OPEN YOUR EYES!!!!"


No hair ties to be found so they can get their hair out of the way and get shit done right, but let's for sure put on some cat ears. 

"I love our femme/soft-butch relationship so much. New shoes?"

I'd like to imagine that she's whispering "Bitch, where are your pubes?" into her ear.

There have been so many not very different versions of this happening so far, and also, what kind of open relationship ass shit is going on here?

Cosmo gave this one a difficulty rating of three because not everyone owns a fringe vest, and they're kind of hard to find.

I would seriously just go home. 


"Better put my cropped sports ringer on."

Mind = Blown.

(Illustrations by Jenny Yuen were used hoping she'll never find this)

Monday, July 28, 2014

The Sex Life of Walt Whitman: We Went to a Poetry Festival

By Kelly McClure and Lindsey Baker

I (Lindsey Baker) want to preface this by addressing something many of us can be ashamed of, at least most female "creative types" who were once 12-20 years old. We have secret stashes of highly embarrassing, and hilariously trope-y poetry that we wrote during really terrible dissolutions of 3-6 week relationships with our soul mates, etc. Recently Kelly went back to her family's home to clean out the garage for her Dad and she unearthed a poetry zine she made as, we're guessing a 20-year-old. She brought it back to share with me and holy fuck it was so amazing I could just shit. I had a fantasy of scanning the pages so she could write a commentary on each "piece" like, "This one where I keep saying the word 'cig' I wrote in the bathroom of a DQ," or something. Anyway, she must have stared at it shamefully for too long because it disappeared from our home and goddamn I'm really pissed. I guess that's why I thought it would be funny if we went to a fucking poetry festival on fucking Governor's Island.

A good thing to do at this point would be to get out the notebook we brought to the festival, which people definitely thought we were using to write actual poetry in, and tell you about all of the various thoughts we had. I'll (Kelly McClure) go first:

A lady in salmon pants was picking her feet on the ferry. 

Lindsey wanted me to remind her to look up pictures of plastic bracelets that EDM music goers like to wear (because there was definitely also an EDM festival happening across the grass from the poetry festival we were at, and they all came over on the same ferry, and one of them put his muffin top by us.)

We had a brief argument about this sexy acting hula-hoop girl, and whether or not she worked there, or if she just "does that." We joked about interviewing her and how we'd start by asking "How long have you been hula hooping at poetry festivals?"

At one point a band finished playing a song and Lindsey said "I'm not clapping."

Bitch crept up from around a tree and took a picture of me.

A man named Phillip came over and asked if we were poets. He was groping at his tie and Lindsey said that he had a wedding band. Then we saw his weird wife and I thought that they must be there looking for a third and a fourth for their weird poetry sex.

Lindsey described some girl as being the Lana Del Rey of poems. 

Okay, now it's Lindsey's turn:

Kelly reminds me every few months that Walt Whitman and her boy, Oscar Wilde, had gay homosexual sex. She told me this time while a Walt Whitman impersonator recited some real-Whitman poetry. I thought these things:

Did he have that stupid beard during their sexcapade? Did he get jizz in it?

What if there was a Sylvia Plath impersonator? I would just shit again. She'd have a petrified chunk of Ted Hughes' cheek jammed in her teeth for fucking eternity. What?

At our last  few cultural outings, Kelly thought that strange acting people (like the sexy hula hoop girl) were on acid, however I believe that they were sexual assault victims. Speaking of the hula hoop girl, my follow up question for her would be, "Why the fuck are you doing that like that?"

The band that I didn't want to clap for rhymed quandry with laundry and that's one of like 800 reasons why I would never clap for them. (** I saw the guy in the cowboy hat from this band at the beer table and he was saying a thing about how he just wants everyone to be happy ** - KM)

After the hula hoop girl accidentally smacked someone with her hula hoop she was photographed probably like 900 times by a 70-year-old photography creep. I guessed that she was somehow flattered because she got even more real with her hoop. OH! and a less creepy and way younger photography man was carrying a damn ladder around to get better shots of Walt Whitman and hula girl.

Governors Island feels like the apocalypse happened or some zombie shit. No one lives in any of the buildings, there's weird security guards, EMD bass is thumping in the background, and you have to crowd onto a ferry to fill a usually deserted island from 10-6pm. It's closed after 6pm. Does that mean it's haunted with aliens or something? The moral of the story is this wouldn't have been weird if it was in Prospect Park, in fact we definitely wouldn't have even gone. SIKE! We love cultural events.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Petty-Counterpetty: Tom Pointy and the Heartboinkers

By: Corey C. and Ben Johnson

After not actually reading the always hilariously overwrought Steven Hyden's Career Arc: Tom Petty piece in Grantland, Total Bozo Youth Correspondent Corey C. had a few thoughts about the "underappreciated genius" of Tom Petty. Total Bozo co-editor Ben Johnson disagreed with those thoughts in the way that reasonable minds can, and so what emerged was a point-counterpoint about Tom Petty. A Petty-Counterpetty, if you will.

Point: The Quiet Genius of Never Listening to Tom Petty’s Music
By Corey C.

I’ve never listened to Tom Petty’s music before. I never got dragged to a Petty concert or dated a girl who had Petty fever or roomed with someone who would subject me to such torture. Recently, my friend asked me if I was going to the Petty show at Fenway and I laughed and said, “Who? The ‘Free Fallin’ guy?” 

That’s right, I have heard that song, but it lends itself to such easy mockery that I forgive it. ‘Free Ballin’ is still a phrase that makes me chuckle. In fact, I was forced into my first extensive free ballin’ experience this summer when I moved to a new apartment and I couldn’t find my underwear (boxer-briefs). It was hot that week and I didn’t feel like unpacking and I secretly liked the lack of underwear. I was almost disappointed to find my underwear on the 4th of July, but it was cold and rainy out, so then I understood the point of wearing underwear again.

I bet Tom Petty needed a new pair of underwear when he was allowed to play in the Traveling Wilburys with Bob Dylan, George Harrison, and Roy Orbison. They were like the Wu-Tang Clan of aging 60s pop icons. Bob Dylan = The GZA (best flow, wordsmith), George Harrison = The Rza (organized it), Roy Orbison = ODB (his verses are the greatest), Jeff Lynne = U-God, and Tom Petty = Cappadonna (I don’t notice Lynne and Petty’s contributions). 

The Traveling Wilburys’ first LP is underrated. That record is so belligerent and relentless that it transcends the corniness to a point that I find acceptable. How can you go wrong with Bob Dylan writing a song called “Tweeter and the Monkey Man” that is blatantly Dylan trying to channel Bruce Springsteen? Wait, was Springsteen asked to join? Was he mad that he didn’t get asked to join? Wouldn’t he have been a better choice than Tom Petty?

I guess I have heard a little Tom Petty here and there, but overall, I’ve avoided him like I avoid Catholic priests. I owned “Damn the Torpedoes” once because it was in the dollar bin and after one listen I respectfully returned it to the dollar bin. Think about it: Petty’s partly responsible for “alt-country” and “Wilco.”   

So join me in not-listening to Tom Petty. We can make a day of it: “Don’t Listen to Tom Petty Day.” We could add it to the Chinese calendar: “The Year of Not Tom Petty.” On Halloween, don’t dress like Tom Petty. And if you are at a party and someone starts playing the chords to one of Petty’s songs, please smash the guitar, like John Belushi in Animal House.

Counterpoint: What The Fuck Are You Even Talking About?
By Ben Johnson

Look, you certainly don’t have to listen to Tom Petty. Your life is your own to live, I guess. And I kind of get where you’re coming from. It’s not like I spend a whole lot of time forking all my cash into whatever jukebox I can find just to listen to some Tom Petty. I own two Petty albums and plenty of Petty MP3’s. I never have a Petty emergency, though. I can get roughly the amount of Petty I find necessary from regular non-Petty living and atmospheric Petty. Hell, those oversturdy radios they use at construction sites play like 70% of the earth’s Petty. Everybody seems more or less fine with that arrangement. So I can understand why you’d want to say something like “I don’t technically need Petty, so not listening to any Petty is a smart way to live.”

But by that logic, everything’s just music. You don’t technically need any of it. It’s like saying “I don’t technically need underwear, so not wearing any underwear is a smart way to live.” Umm, how about if your dick and balls are a gross mess nobody wants to touch? Is that smart? No. It is not.

And it is also not smart to dismiss Petty out of hand just because you’ve heard “Refugee” more times than you’d prefer to. You can’t blame Petty for that. It’s not like he came to your house and forcibly duct taped you to a chair and played “Refugee” over and over again. That’s not how Petty rolls. For every unwanted repeat of “Free Fallin’” you’d prefer to take off your total tally, Petty also didn’t come to your house and forcibly duct tape you to a chair and make you listen to “Anything That’s Rock N’ Roll” even though that might have benefitted you greatly. He just plays the songs and leaves the rest up to you. He’s the world’s shruggingest rock star.

Are there underrated Petty albums? Hell yeah. You want to make rap game comparisons, 2006’s Highway Companion is Petty’s “Forgot About Dre” in an era when every Shins, Fleet Foxes, and Grizzly Bear were making precocious inroads into the Petty zone of singer-songwriter pop pleasantries and acting like hot little shits about it. Highway Companion dabbles just enough in mid-2000’s indiepop tropes to effortlessly mop the floor with those other acts. And I don’t really need to tell you about Wildflowers, do I? It’s the alternate universe follow-up to After The Gold Rush in case you ever want to put on an album that crushes you into nothing.

I think the big thing that’s missing here is context. Okay, yeah, parts of Full Moon Fever are a little dated. But look at the vast wasteland that was popular music and popular music delivery methods in 1989. It’s all this boo hoo hoo The Cure new wave goth shit, and that thing where you Midnight Oil Guy dance to “Roam” by The B-52’s without moving your feet from where they are on the floor. Even if you had the wherewithal to look past the pop charts, which few did back then, you get not much for your trouble but obnoxious metal and shoegazing Brits and American indie underground “art rock” songs about Monkeys Gone To Heaven. If you wanted straight-ahead unselfconscious pop rock songwriting you could sing along to in 1989, it was Petty and then off a cliff to the other guys. And if you listen carefully to the runout of “Runnin’ Down A Dream,” you can tell he was trying his best to include a healthy dose of guitar. Maybe not a The Gories amount or a Cosmic Psychos amount, but come on. Let’s be realistic here. Fucking nobody knew about those bands until like 20 years after the internet was invented. The people who were actually there know this. There were twelve of them at those shows, and three of those twelve were 50-something year old alcoholics whose native VFW hall was the venue. Petty might not move the needle much for you in 2014 when everybody knows everything, but in 1989 Tom Petty was downright helpful. He was out in the open; on the radio and everything.

And that’s more or less what we’re talking about here with Petty. You’re telling me you’re in a classic rock radio situation and you’re NOT cranking it when a Petty tune comes on? What are you turning up? Foreigner “Urgent?” BTO “You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet?” God help us, are you out there getting stoked on Superfuckingtramp “The [Motherfucking] Logical Song?” I mean, really. Just how important do you think you are, you can’t listen to a little Tom Petty?

Monday, July 21, 2014

These 45s Are Making Me Thirsty

By: Kelly McClure

Ahhh, we see what you've done there, every website ever, and we like it! Here are pictures of 45s found in a garage with nonsensical words strung together underneath them. 

Little bit of something in a tooth crack.

Cigarette smoke on a humid window.

All manner of pubes.

Hairspray can rolling around in a plastic bag.

Hamster cage moist wood chips.

Cracker crumbs on a fleece blanket.

Stressful fart in a peanut shell.

Kool-Aid man reading the newspaper in bed.

Highway museum brochure collection.

Popcorn crumbs in your pants and eyebrow hairs.

All different kinds of dandruff. 

Friday, July 18, 2014

The Old iO Theater Is Closing And It’s Making Me Annoying

By: Ben Johnson

There’s a decent chance you’ve heard of iO. It’s that place in Chicago where all those famous people learned how to do comedy. Improv comedy. You know like the Chris Farleys and the Tina Feys and all the people from Saturday Night Live who didn’t come from LA’s Groundlings theater or from doing standup or from internet videos. It’s just, like, a place where a certain percentage of the general comedy population filters through, is a reason you may have heard of it. And also it is a going concern, and it benefits pretty fucking directly from telling you about how it’s the place where the famous people went to learn how to become rich and famous, so you may have heard of it because its owner, Charna Halpern, very much wants you to have heard of it. The building it was in is being torn down.

I spent irresponsibly huge swaths of my 20’s hanging out there, so this is turning into one of those “what does it all mean” things for me. It’s turning into one of those things for a lot of people. I hate those things. They bubble up from inside of you, like a flooding basement, and you go “no no no no not me,” but then because it’s an emotional response, you don’t really get to decide how much water you’ll get. It’s a force beyond your control. So then you go “okay, this is happening, this is a thing I need to process, I’ll say something on Facebook about it, but just not something embarrassing like everybody else, I’ll do a real good real one,” and then you do it and you look at it and you go “shit, that’s exactly embarrassing in the exact way I was trying to avoid.” And then you go back to replacing your emotional drywall, or whatever the basement flood analogy thing it is people do with their emotionally flooded basements.

Improv is embarrassing. You ever watch improv comedy? It’s embarrassing. You go “oh jeez oh man I hope this doesn’t suck, that would be embarrassing,” and then it sucks worse than anything you can imagine. Watching bad improv is like experiencing time in negative increments. It always seems like somebody should be able to go “no thanks” and it will just stop happening and that will be the best thing for everybody, but that apparently can’t happen. Sometimes improv doesn’t suck and you go “phew, that didn’t suck that much, but man, that was tense.” Sometimes, very rarely and increasingly very very rarely as you watch more of it, it moves beyond merely not sucking and becomes actually good. And about a hundredth of the actually good times are actually GREAT. And if you see one of those, it’s hard not to want to see more of them, and be around the people who do them, and maybe even do one and be one yourself. And so you go and you launch yourself into the great seething mass of embarrassing suck and you try to climb. Because you need to, for some reason. This need is embarrassing. You are 22 years old. You are embarrassing in the same ways all 22 year olds are. Plus, as an extra added layer of embarrassment, you are doing improv. Improv is the worst.

One of the additional ways improv is embarrassing is the culture of it. Improv, as a whole, is insecure. It’s like Ultimate Frisbee. If you’re the best athlete playing Ultimate Frisbee, you probably have all the same skills and abilities as a football player or a soccer player. People who play Ultimate are always like “how come there’s no Major League Ultimate Frisbee that people pay money for,” and it’s because the best Ultimate players are way less amazing than the best any other sport players. I WOULD pay money to see Billy Hamilton play Ultimate Frisbee. Unfortunately he’s busy playing centerfield for the Cincinnati Reds. That’s what improv is like. It’s all these people going back and forth between “there should be a Professional Ultimate Frisbee League” and “I think I’m good enough at Ultimate Frisbee to play centerfield for the Cincinnati Reds.” Improv is a hobby run amok. It’s a thing people enjoy doing which inflicts itself on audiences.

I’ve been lucky enough to improvise with some of the funniest people alive. I was in improv groups with Saturday Night Live cast members and ABC sitcom showrunners and Daily Show correspondents and screenwriters whose work has been produced by Relativity Media. I was on groups with crazy people and weird people who show up to your party too early and never leave and off-the-grid type people who don’t have a telephone and don’t mind and sleep in a sleeping bag on an unheated porch and live off 7-Eleven nachos for months at a time. I went to parties full of heterosexual naked men and got naked myself and had honest, unstrained, normal conversations with other naked heterosexual men, and we did this because naked men are funny. The Asian guy from Walking Dead has seen my penis.

Anyway, iO is closing. Not the business, but the physical building in Wrigleyville, Chicago that iO has been housed in for a while now. It’ll be razed to the ground and replaced with some kind of inhuman bajillion dollar hotel development for extreme Cubs fans. iO has been where it is for like, I don’t know, somewhere between 15 and 20 years. But its Clark Street location is and I guess was the best possible version of what it is. The new one is going to suck. I mean, technically, it’s going to be amazing and great, but it’s also going to suck the way all new things do.

Especially comedy venues. The ideal comedy venue, as is the case with Old iO, has a seating capacity grandfathered in from whoever was the fire marshal during the Coolidge Administration. You want to stack audiences on top of each other as uncomfortably as possible. That’s how laughter happens. It spreads like a communicable disease: most efficiently in closely-crowded communicable disease-like conditions. New comedy venues have too many fire safety regulations to contend with, such as “you need to prevent all these people from tripping over their chairs and dying in a big pile of burning chairs if anything bad happens,” so there’s no closeness. You might as well put the people in vibrating Sharper Image recliners. When was the last time you saw a person laugh in one of those things? Safety kills comedy. Liability insurance kills comedy. Real estate is killing comedy.

And more importantly, a brand new nice comedy venue especially doesn’t work with improv. Improv needs to feel like an adventure for everybody. It can’t just be entertainment. You need to go be led down a long steep stairway, around a dumpster, through a Laundromat, and into a 20’X20’ room with 9 people in it, and be scooped, ladled really, into an uncomfortable seat, and fed booze, and then some people come out and do something weird that surprises the hell out of you and you say “I’m alive now, and now no matter how much in the future I am bludgeoned by the dull enormity of functioning in society, I will always have proof of having been alive once as long as me and these nine other people are still breathing.” Improv at the old iO was like a road trip with six friends in a 1995 Mercury Tracer station wagon with broken air conditioning and a boombox for a stereo. At the time, it totally totally sucks because you’re sore and cramped and sweaty and Ryan’s being annoying and everybody keeps farting all the time, but you went because you wanted to and you got there and now it’s something you remember. The new place is going to be like a vacation in a brand new Escalade with every modern convenience so a sullen family of uptight WASPs can avoid connecting to each other. Probably. I mean I haven’t been.

I did improv in other places too. There were places which had set up some fairly rigorous formulas for what happens on stage and when, formulas which minimize the uncomfortable risk to an audience of catching the show on an off night where nothing works. Minimizing risk is the same thing as minimizing the role of talent in attempting the thing you are doing. It’s still nice if it works but you get bored easily. I’ve performed at places which had even less structure than iO, and done what I thought were great shows that I still think about and laugh, but nobody came to those because no structure means all risk and the percentages with improv just are not that high, and also maybe, definitely, I thought I was much funnier than I was. iO was always the place where talent went to experience and hone itself, not in a vacuum and not within a strict formula. It did so via fully embarrassing, fully risky improv, focused by the lens of some hippy dippy philosophical claptrap about “group mind” and given artificially high stakes by a sloppily arranged and often infuriating but weirdly effective bureaucratic power structure. It drew its power from the collective energies of an ever-replenishing army of other frightened, insecure 22 year olds. It was a ride. It was frightfully boring and long and uncomfortable and it smelled like farts and everybody was cranky and mean to each other, and our reward was night after night of fully embarrassing improv comedy. In retrospect none of that matters really, because we got to be together and do something, which is true no matter what because even if we were only pretending we were doing something, that is something in itself.

The year I got a bullhorn at the Christmas gift swap and spent all night drunkenly heckling people in the bathroom.

All of this is seeping up from some deep spring within me because Old iO closing is the real, true, final death knell to that phase of my life. Even after having walked away because of needing to get my life together and needing to have healthier priorities and needing to not spend two, three, seven nights a week doing embarrassing improv shows, there was this feeling that I could always go back. It’s a delusion, of course. Some weird fantasy that I’d snap my fingers and walk in and the whole building would be full of everybody I ever knew from within its walls, all cracking each other up, and everybody I was an asshole to forgives me, everybody sincerely appreciating each other, and there would be no improv show because finally we no longer need the pretense of doing improv for each other, and you’d just stand there and know you’d made it and you were funny and you were talented and you were part of something, and you’d just smile at each other like Mr. Miyagi and it would be the total best.

That could never and did not ever happen of course, although it got damn close a time or two. Time doesn’t work like that. People don’t work like that. Life doesn’t work like that. I know that. I have over the last few years gone back to the theater every once in a while and it’s weird and it sucks and I don’t know anybody and there’s nothing happening there but shitty improv and overloud moderately funnyish 22 year olds who haven’t learned how to calm down yet. It’s like taking a tourist trip to a 1995 Mercury Tracer full of somebody else’s farts. I know the fantasy version isn’t real and isn’t going to happen. But they’re tearing down the building. Now it’s REALLY not going to happen.

There’s still going to be an iO Theater. It’s going to be nice. All of those same improv things are going to happen in it. Waves and waves of 22 year old will crash endlessly at its shores, and they are going to suck at improv and be totally totally unforgivably embarrassing, and a few of them will become little Chris Farleys and Tina Feys, and you will have even more reason for hearing of iO. But I no longer have adequate energy to misplace there for this newfangled version of it to ever become the setting of my weird sirenlike utopian heaven fantasies. So something is ending. Some weird big fake important thing inside of me can’t happen anymore, and everybody else on Facebook is getting all sentimental about it, and I guess I am too because I can’t stop myself.

Goodbye and good luck, iO. May you always be somebody’s fart-reeking heaven of youth. I'm sorry I had the embarrassing urge to say all of this.