Schools out! Damn what will I do with the

pretty sunny this time of year. So, I signed the brood to the YMCA Army Reserve Day Camp. I packed up their field rations and sent them to Iraq via a Blackhawk. "Have fun kids!"

What they didn't know was that I had under-armored their humvee. Hopefully an IED Blast in Baghdad will cause enough brain damage that my kids will finally be happy because

my kids are hippies totally into this war and bombs bullshit. Back in the 60s, that shit wasn't a big deal. The missile crisis, an atom bomb, moon landing, we didn't really care.

We were the apathetic Sixtyniners. But noone wrote about us. We didn't Howl, or march on Washington, or have love ins, smoke peyote, or put flowers in our hair, didn't drive VW bus

loads of junkies.We Sixtyniners practiced our art in the slurping darkness of our bedrooms, faces pressed in obeisance to the very organs of our origin. Here was the true religion.

Venus hunched over the glassy pool and laughed as the visions of inadequate lovers fumbling in their bedsheets quivered before her. At her feet, Vulcan cooed & she kicked him away.

"Btw, Vulcan babes, I'm havin yo baby." said Venus. "I've looked at the Baby Names books & we're calling him Spinther." Vulcan's blood boiled. "Spinther!" he erupted, "what kind of

name is Spinther?!" Venus glared right back at Vulcan and replied "The best kind, it's mah baby, and imma name him whatever the hell I want"

Later, after years of torment and bullying, poor Spinther legally changed his name to Turly Curd and well, the rest is history. He never spoke to Venus or Vulcan again.