October and crisp and cold (like Iceberg lettuce? Maybe.) Here I am in my Halloween costume. What do you call an empy hot dog? A hollow weenie. Or something to that effect.

I was a boxer in my early youth. When I was seven. Camp Academy. We learned of “upper cuts” and “crosses” and “jabs.” I was a bleeder. Quick hands though. Great power and notable for my agile movements and good foot work. But I was a bleeder. One punch to my nose and I bled too much. Fight was always being called. But oh my hand speed. And I had the boxers mind too. Yes. Strategic! Violent! But cautious. Wait…wait…wait…find the opening…wait for your moment michael…attack! You’ve got him on the ropes! Attack! Beat him! Beat his butt! Punch! Punch! Jab! Right hand! Left! Counter! You’ve got him! Go! Attack! Wait…fuck! He hit me in my nose! Fuck! I’m bleeding! Wait…no! Don’t call the fight! No…don’t call it…shit…ow…I’m bleeding…

And then here we have a picture I drew of a Smurf’s penis. (Just turned 36 in June by the way.)