It's about time there's a pub that's open for dawn

And I'm not typing about just any 'ole dawn.

I mean, okay (trade-offs, people..), the alley opossums feel increasing involuntary leg-twitching scatter temptation in her wispy, revealing - and soon enough reveling - rays of diverse and sundry wavelengths.

But they've come to realize the benefits up getting up the nerve - never mind the stools - to request gloriously mind-altering fluids of the bartender in their heavily Didelphimorphia-accented, broken English.

(Hey, that's what o-happens when you've an "unusually full jaw"...)

I for one (although I wouldn't be surprised were there more) am ecstatic to not be thinking of her. You read that right. Not for a single day, thus most certainly not for 10 years of single days. And not because I'm not single, either. It's more about The Sanity, aka the testosterone-less state, i.e. *not* the state of *THE* union....

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