The night of demons, flames of iniquity licking our lower carriages as we trudge burdened by our sins towards an assured end, the liquid and squick of concupiscent dreams running from our breast--

This is the night we lashed out at the beast of shame and sensibility, delivering in tight post office bootyshorts a heartbroken manila folded-and-spindled spirit upon which we insist our tired, our poor, our huddled mass of flesh yearning to break free.

We wore a diaper filled with candy and hung hogtied from an old oak tree, and the people struck us with their staffs until it all spilled out.

Blessed be James McCloud the father, the son Fox, and the wholly unnecessary Krystal, from whence our porn once commenced in deluge.

Amen.