Arise, Darth Hawkins

So now I am the man in the iron boot while my evil twin struts around like the cock of the walk, hated by everyone. He'd better be living it up, wherever he is. The boot has infiltrated my central nervous system and has set up communications with the cerebral cortex, which might be bad. So far it's not too serious. Strong in the ways of the dark side I find myself becoming. Break me a fucking give, to quote the New Yorker (David Denby or Anthony Lane, I can't remember which bitch). Almost zero hour, late, forty-seven minutes until the TNT coverage of the British Open begins. I have chosen Guinness for the occasion but I haven't opened the first one yet. This will be the best thing to fill the void left by the finish of the World Cup, but the Braves powerhouse roll has been a riot and long overdue.
The boot fills me with insane desires, many of which go unfulfilled for the moment. I am a different being with this expensive contraption strapped on to my extremity and must accept the inevitable consequences that go along with it. All right, it's 3:04 in the a.m. and I think I'm going to pour a tasty beverage and report on the taste. Wow, I guess you could say that it's "Guinntastic!" patent pending. Are you looking for the perfect computer for back-to-school? Damn salesmen. Say a prayer for Ernie Johnson Jr. who should be in Liverpool but is in Atlanta recovering from cancer surgery. The boot speaks:

Given a lovely cage
I inject myself
with Stockholm syndrome
I am a collection
waiting to escape
That's the fair thing to do
Hoping the world waits for me
Accept the reward
with grace and relish

Earlier, in the back yard

Fig leaves rustling
high in the twilight
Make me want to get naked
and put one over my penis
Marching around the yard
on my crutches

All right, time for another Guinnesscapade. I like that one.
The boot swallows my dignity as I swallow stout which harms no one with a level head. But my head begins to sway.