It’s a whole new year, all lined up and facing into the wind and waiting to play with you like an eager puppy, like a supple French hooker, like a shimmering glass of God’s own tequila just sitting on the counter of possibility waiting for you to tip your head back and let that white-hot firewater slide down your throat like a snake of temptation straight into your undernourished id. [From Mark Morford’s New Years column]
[Edit: Sorry about the pop-ups, but I guess they pay his bills.]