It’s a Sunday and I downed some whipped cream. Straight from the nozzle like an animal. Like somebody who knows exactly what sin is. This is good and clean and fun but I’m lactose-intolerant and that sweet sweet heavy cream gives me some sleepy, sloppy farts—some creepy, crappy farts. It’s like Dr. Seuss said: “You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes,” and, well, I got gas in my caboose Mr. Seuss and she’s ripping loose like stinky one-liners during amateur hour at the comedy club. You heard that thunder on Sunday? Nope. That was my rear end belting and swan-songing like the prima donna’s understudy.