2003-01-31

Dante? I bite my thumb at you. You, sir, are an amateur. You and your �being endlessly devoured by three-headed dogs� and your �being pelted by a hail of burning sand� and your �being enthusiastically whipped by especially misanthropic demons.� Feh. Kid stuff.

When I hop off the train at the final destination on the Express Route to Hell, I�m going to be shepherded into an elevator, where I�ll be crammed in shoulder-to-shoulder with a mouth breather for all eternity. Aaaugh! Gaaaah! I swear, one more minute of that this morning and I�d have been ricocheting off the elevator walls like a giant shrieking pinball. DUDE. You appear to possess the standard human anatomical breathing apparatus, but that is obviously an illusion since you sound for all the world like you�re struggling to suck oxygen through a clogged blowhole. Every breath for you is a fight for mere existence, and for me a fight to keep down my lunch. Darth Vader should have gone in for DNA testing, because clearly there was a mix-up in the Jedi-ling nursery and he is in fact YOUR father. Shut up! If you have to stop breathing entirely, I�m OK with that! Just shut up!

(If I seem overly fixated on Dante lately, it�s because of this guy. He�s a genius.)