Condiments slipping from a sesame seed bun, flowing down a white shirt like a tidal wave, staining pants with yellow and red.

Brion Gysin was eating a hamburger in a manner no mortal man had eaten a sandwich of any kind, and the consumption of said hamburger was an experience I had the pleasure of witnessing in its entirety.

Like an Aztec war bib, that shirt became, a river of color.

It was no less than religious epiphany, a communion that I daresay has not been repeated since, not even by Jack Kerouac and his legendary overstuffed Chicago-style frankfurters.

The children play in the woods despite our warning them repeatedly it's not safe out there.

The kids say they're safe. Don't worry about us. We're fine.

Kids can be stupid.

Henderson came up with a plan to knock some sense into them.

We all put on animal skins and wore scary masks, then we went to the forest to wait for the kids.

The moment the kids showed up, we'd jump out and scare them.

Kids can be stupid.

Instead, when we jumped out, the kids shot at us with their guns.

I guess parents can be stupid too.

Happy Birthday, America. How old are you now?

We've baked you a cake. A country-sized cake.

I know, we didn't have to, but we had all this food lying around in silos and warehouses and store shelves.

It would have just gone to waste. Or food aid to people that hate us anyway.

We'll dig a gigantic hole and call it your mouth.

Go ahead. Make a wish. Blow out the candles.

Then, thousands of bulldozers will push the cake into your mouth.

Earthquakes will chew it up. Grind it into a sugary mush.

And swallow the cake down.