Consider it greenlit!

Tonight on The Senser, can J. Ramses Pickest bust the diamond trafficking ring with nothing but his street-smarts and hyper-attuned senses? Will he solve the case via the mysteries of scent memory? Will he use touch? Or taste? Or that most precious of all the senses—-humanity?

Somewhere, in a lofted pillowfort in Williamsburg, Miranda July stirs uneasily in her sleep.

At least one.

"Lotweeta, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-tweet-a:
the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to
tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Tweet. A."

Wow, I must be Nietzsche, 'cause that pick-up line's enough to make me…ubermensch. 

Originally, I was going to be a gimmick commenter named "David Foster Walrus," and post elliptical, endnote-orgiastic sentence w.r.t. the deliciousness of halibut. So, that's still out there, for anyone who wants to claim it.

Thanks for the kind words and kinder likes, all—it's nothing but an old tale handed down by generations of poetasters. And Lurky McLurkerson, you are entirely correct—I was going for "a-puppin'," as in the act of being a pup, but left out that crucial hyphen (please look for my first novel "That Crucial Hyphen," out…

Surly Driver & Scrawler:

Settle yerself down, young Gherkins, and I'll tell ya a tale.

It sounds like a poorly translated GI Joe.

It's "F," isn't it, Don S.? I've been down this road before. 

In all fairness, McSweeney's Dipshit makes McSweeney's Internet Tendency look like the Wholphin.

"Dear? Deal? Honey, DEA isn't a word." 

Man, I miss the fabled Tuesday night gerund block. 

The whole time I was reading this gigantic book I was hoping someone would turn to the omniscient narrator and say, "But aren't we all under our own domes?" Perhaps Brian K. Vaughan will rectify this.