It’s D’Crepit, it’s D’Mented, it’s D’Souza

And so there I was, drunk. As I usually am on any night before a holiday. Why not, Martha? And I was playing some darts at the English pub up the ways. I had all of 50 points left to win my last game, and what did I do? I went and threw a double bullseye. Yep, that’s right. And I thought ‘Well now that’s some Michael Jordan shit right there.’

But for sheer balls I could never manage a D’Souza tweet. Buddha no, that’s out of my league. I’d have to throw idling oil tankers at the bullseye with my eyes closed, hitting it 99 times in a row, then throw the battered dartboard into deep space, striking a particular streaking Van Allen Belt helium atom and shattering it into its substantive protons and neutrons, with the particles doing the fling galactic, getting sucked into the four corners of space-time, wherein roiling monstrous black holes spew said atom bits into wholly separate universes, from which nothing, no thing – ever – could remotely be said to ever come back. And then. The bits would have to zoom right back to the English Pub and – skree! – stop on a dime to form a drunken pyramid, and sing the Wonderama theme song to an amused crowd while I stood in the bathroom peeing on one of those bullseye urinal cakes, with a mounting sense of Deja Vu, a long time before I ever was born. For me to compare myself to Martin Luther King, Junior.