Everyone’s eyeballs stunk that day. “What’s that smell,” in a dozen, a hundred, a thousand different languages rang out and it was eyeball, the people discovered, after they smelled everything else. You never think of eyeballs having any smell at all, let alone a powerful ragout of an alcoholic moose’s turds wafting out of people’s’ orbital sockets.
No one’s dick worked right that day. Wana bang? Floppy. Gotta piss? Hard as Chinese algebra. Fix the dicks, the cry went out. No one could. No one could fix the dicks on that day.
Kansas City, MO and Kansas City, KS switched places that day and absolutely no one gave two shits one way or the other.
That day, haircuts didn’t take. Which led to a lot of really unprecedented conversations with barbers the next day, but we’re only talking about that day.
That day, the ocean grew angry and started winging porpoises at cruise ships. The wet, meaty thuds as the magnificent cetaceans hit the bulkheads were disconcerting.
That was the day that Matt Morris got blown by a radioactive gay guy and became…HOMO-MAN! with all the spending power of a gay man and the scheduling abilities of a gay woman.
That was the day that Ned Lagin came, children.