Hello again, mis amigos.

Now listening to: "I Do Believe We're Naked" by Funky See Funky Do.

Can anyone recall what that is from?

Ahhh, Mr. Groening. Your franchise, once a glorious shining example of comedic prowess and art, has sunk to the pit of despair, season after tired, limping season. Bury the corpse, Matt. It's beginning to smell.

I feel somewhat led to write a discourse on evolution and the controversy over teaching it in Kansas. There is too much knee-jerking on both sides, in my view, and enough straw men being put up you'd think we were in a cornfield. Oh wait...Kansas...har har!

But not right now.

Now I am exulting in the fact that my delightfully little microscopic English friends of the Saccharomyces Cerevisiae variety are chewing their way through five gallons of malt, water, and hops, emitting a most aromatic and pleasing flatulence through the carboy airlock. Oh heavens, what a smell! This is a fun hobby. Saturday morning's kitchen cleanup, not so much. But worth it!