And we gazed upon the chimes of Freedom, flashing.

Everything you need to know about Bob Dylan can be found in the title of this post.

But that's not what we're here to talk about.  We're here to acknowledge that I was wrong.

I'm not discounting the man's mouth.  And it, I promise you, with its gnashing, slightly crooked yellow teeth, will get its due.  But mouths, like eyes, are windows to the soul.  And the soul is located, if I'm not mistaken, directly behind one's belly button.  The upper end of the lower bowel, if that's not putting too fine a point on it.

So it's all going to come up out of the collar.  Like a volcano, ideally.  Like the McCain painting, ideally.

To further fuel my righteous indignation, I'm playing the Byrds.

I suppose by this point I don't have to say it, but disregard the massive black goober under his eye.  When I poured some very liquid white on top of the original, still-wet black, all hell broke loose.