The best way to get a beet drunk is to let it age in the fridge, where it’s natural sugars will ferment, creating a mellow and completely organic beet high.  Whereas, say, poking it with a fork and leaving it in your dresser at the bottom of a bottle of Peach Schnapps is only going to piss it off.  At which point it could hatch a scheme to lay low

Question:  if someone were to accidentally ingest, say, 13 Sudafed all at once, would that person necessarily die?  Or would he, y’know, feel like he’s just snorted two pounds of hot Kuwaiti sand through a rolled-up dollar bill, then wake up refreshed and completely decongested the following morning? **** update:  hypothetically, I mean.

In the limited cosmos of the Sea Monkey, there can be but one Sea Monkey King; and that King is in my kitchen right now, fixing himself a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich on toasted white bread. My dogs, who eat mostly liver-flavored kibble, are not at all amused.

In theory, the differences between a feral cat and a beet are quite significant.  But then, “theory” never tried to make beet salad with heavy whipping cream and barbecue-flavored Pringles bits. Somewhere in the waters just outside Cambodia, a dolphin in a pea coat grins at my misfortune.

Beets.  Millions of beets—each one sleeping the dirt-caked slumber of a benign and edible root.  But I fear the nightfall…

Billy Fidget* and the dolphin.  No, not a folk duet.  A mini-cabal.  A mini-cabal lounging on a piece of ruddy driftwood, sharing clove cigarettes and debating the finer points of irresistible grace.  This, I fear, could take days. Prognosis:  time to zip up the tent, people.  And hide the rest of the Muscatel. 

Anybody else see that dolphin in the navy blue pea coat slip a wad of rolled-up bills and a bag of ‘shrooms into Education Secretary Rod Paige’s jacket pocket?  Because I did.  Note to Secret Service:  should the dolphin start going on about sea monkeys, take him down right away.  Trust me.

Freeze-dried brine shrimp, by the way.  That’s all sea monkeys really are.  And—contrary to the promises made by some dolphins—not one of those little shrimpbastards will don a crown, or bareback a sea horse, or launch a well-funded counterinsurgency against the fascist blue crab regime that recently seized control of the bathtub.

I think that dolphin in the pea coat stole my Elvis Costello CD.  Along with a box of Rice Chex, a cast iron desk lamp, and the harmonica I got for Christmas a few years back. Which just goes to show you:  never trust a legless mammal.  No matter how good his weed is, and no matter how many fucking sea monkeys he promises to send you once he gets

That dolphin in the navy blue pea coat I warned you about?  Turns out he was just looking for a cup of seawater and a pound of diced squid—which I happily traded to him for a couple of fat joints rolled in dried kelp. Oh.  And it was an umbrella he was carrying.  But you can hardly blame me for doubting that a dolphin would bother toting around an umbrella.