Have you ever wondered why supernatural occurrences never happen to ordinary people?  No?  Me neither.  Shouldn't "supernatural" be more like "supernormal"?  A "supernatural" occurrence is an oxymoron.  If an event happens, then it must be within boundaries of nature for it to occur, otherwise, it wouldn't.  However, if the event were supernormal, that would imply that although it is outside of the boundaries of everyday happenings, it's still quite possible within the scheme of nature, no matter how abnormal it might appear.  Which goes a long way toward explaining the duck-billed platypus.  Is it more duck than beaver, is it more beaver than duck, and who in the fuck came up with the name and spelling of platypus?  And while we're on the subject, what exactly is the difference between a sweet potato and a yam, anyway?  I believe it is proper to server sweet potatoes with those cute little marshmallows, but I'm not quite sure that marshmallow cream is a suitable substitute.  But then again, who really knows much about tuber etiquette?  I imagine the only people who could even venture a guess are the Sepic peoples of New Guinea, but they've got a good thing going and it would lessen the experience if shared that knowledge with us.  I'm not trying to confuse you into thinking I'm a some great thinker or philosopher, don't get me wrong.  There do seem to be a lot of people in the world who try to pass themselves off as such, but I firmly believe that if they thought less about metaphysical bullshit and more about what they are actually trying to achieve, there would be a whole lot less confusion and paranoia about which wine went better with certain tubers, and if you used colored marshmallows, would it throw the tubers off-kilter?  Would they suffer a mild case of vertigo, or would they bounce back, strong as ever?  These are the questions I ask myself when I'm sitting on the can.  Not because I have to go to the bathroom, but because I for one do all my best thinking on the can.  What else is there to do on a Saturday night in this little hole of a multiverse?
 I like vodka.  I like vodka because it's made from potatoes.  I would like liver, too, if it were made from potatoes.  Don't get me wrong.  I do not have some strange kind of tuber fetish.  Some of my best friends are actually legumes.  I do, however, believe that the potato is an underrated vegetable.  How noble, and yet humble.  How small, and yet this powerful thing killed many Irishmen by simply refusing to grow.  It is clearly an object that falls under the category "supernormal".  Although, couldn't the Irish have eaten something other than potatoes?  That slight flaw in reasoning often threatens to rear it's ugly head in my mind, but I refuse it telling myself that the potato was as sacred to the Irish as the cow is to the people of India, and although Indians refuse to eat of the holy cattle because of its place in their spirituality, Irishmen thrived on nothing but the sacred potato, for without that, without the royal, all-powerful potato, where would McDonald's be now?  And what of Ruffles and Lays and Mr. Pringles?  Could you imagine a world without them?  It sets my teeth on edge to even approach that scenario.  And while we're on that subject, when, oh when will Elvis finally make an appearance on National television and prove to the country, nay, the world, that he is indeed alive and well?  After all, he must come forth and protest the appointment of a stamp in his honor.  The Post Office, by issuing such a stamp is implying that Elvis is indeed dead.  Not to mention...just how exactly does a stamp say Rock 'N Roll?  Imagine.  This guy had women throwing God know what at him when he was on stage.  Underwear, hotel room keys, themselves...This man became the epitome of male human existence, knowing that millions of women all over the world were staying up night imagining what it would be like to be his personal love slave, clutching his albums to their collective chests, and we commemorate this achievement of such magnanimous proportions with a 29 cent scrap of paper?  Wouldn't all that tick you off?  Why not issue a commemorative Jesus stamp while you're at it?  Or better yet, how about a Jesus and Elvis stamp on black velvet shaking hands and crying blood?  The Southern Baptists would go for it.  Hell, stick an AK-47 in Jesus' hand and I think the NRA will go for it too.  Is nothing sacred in this twisted world?  Not that I have a problem with a twisted world, mind you.  I like my worlds with a twist, a dash of Tobascco shaken, not stirred, and no cocktail onion, please.  And no green olives, either.  Which leads me to my main point, the reason I began this whole blasted rambling in the first place.  Who do they pay to stuff those damned pimentos into the green olives?  I mean that has got to be the most repetitive, boring, excruciatingly dull job ever in the entire civilized world.  That, and Certified Public Accounting.  My personal hell would consist of being given a quota of 7,000,000,000,000 olives to stuff while listening to Achey Breaky Heart and Rocky Mountain High and I Got Friends In Low Places on a constant loop, over and over and over again.  Oh, and I also wouldn't like to hear anything that has to do with Rush Limbaugh or Howard Stern.  Stern is alright, but I really don't want to hear anything about sex when I'm going to be spending the next two thousand years stuffing nothing but FREAKING green olives.  Which brings me to my other main point.  This story has absolutely no point, or that is to say, it has so many points that point in so many directions so quickly that it appears to be more spherical in nature.  That's the work of a genius, you know.  To write a ball is not an easy thing.  To write a SuperBall is quite a bit tougher, and to write a glow-in-the-dark SuperBall, well...that's akin to Godhood.  I would consider what I do more along the lines of a two-toned, day-glo Silly Putty ball.  That's pretty super, don't you think?  Go ahead, say it.  Say it and make me a God!  Do it!  Do it, and maybe I won't tell everyone that secret fantasy you have about you-know-who.  I mean, Godhood by blackmail isn't wrong, is it?  What I mean to say is, isn't it all pretty much supernatural anyway?