Editorial

Absinthe, you scoundrel.

Uhm, so good morning, I guess. Apologies for the lack of enthusiastic greetings on my behalf, but I’m very disoriented and the last thing I remember was fireworks and a countdown of sorts. My perceptual abilities seem to be operating at half capacity, but preliminary assessments of my immediate surroundings indicate that I am in a bathtub. Instead of water, the bathtub in question is currently filled mostly with yours truly, partly by a tuba and a bit by Salomon the dead salmon. He’s called Salomon because that’s what the post-it note says. And he’s called dead because he doesn’t move, he smells and his head seems to be bitten off. The tuba remains unidentified. I appear to be wearing lederhosen. I have a weird taste in my mouth.

In order to give you a sense of how I’m currently feeling, I would like you to imagine a thousand hippoposti… ehm… hippotatoes… hang on… hepatitis? Sod it, you know those absolutely massive African grey beasts that they say kill more sharks than people every year? You take the correct plural of those ungodly creatures and imagine that they are stampeding at will within the confinements of my skeletal braincase. Add to the picture that they are wearing shoes with really sharp spikes on them. And that their teeth are chainsaws. And that they are breathing fire out of their eyes. And ears.

Anyway, what I’m trying to get at is 1) everything hurts and I’m dying inside and 2) Flipside will in 2014 continue to provide you with half-witty and poorly phrased mediocre distractions from whatever worthwhile activity people should rather be filling their time with nowadays.

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