Island transmissions and other mechanical hoo

The boys and a girl came up for a weekend of rye and violence and swingsets at midnight and I tell you what, there's little I like more than the aforementioned thangs. But now that the smokes are extinguished, the bottles recycled, the marrow scraped from the hedges, I find myself with limited innernet axxexx and nothing of the new and true in the mail. A drought for this here b-l-o-g, like my folks are suffering in the grape state of Georgia. Don't know when it'll clear up. A lonely PO Box breaks my oil-stained heart, so it'll do me good if you hook my isolated dome up with something fresh out the box. Otherwise, you won't get to read me talk about the post-apocalyptic English coastal town meets abandoned sculpture garden that is Tom Nevers and how it relates to whatever honky residue I'm hearin' and that would be a cryin' you know what.
Also, don't smoke unfiltered Pall Malls. They's a sad substitute for the American Spirit species, unless you're down with tugging on butts laced with burnt cocoa powder and Windex. I'd really rather smoke dirty Kleenex than let those sorry excuses darken my porch again.
Stay frosty.