Zombie Cossacks are not to be trifled with, and Post-Modern Drunkard did not intend any disrespect or any insult to members of the Low-Dancing Horse-Rearing Flesh-Consuming community.
We at Post-Modern Drunkard share our deepest sympathies for those offended by the overuse of gerunds and hyphens in the prior apology.
Attention to those employing me at [Monster-sized Non-Profit]: "The beatings will continue until morale improves" is a joke, not a business strategy. As soon as we get free of these leg-irons, there will be hell to pay. P.S. Thank you for the benefits package--you were correct: the lemon was helpful re: the Scurvy.
A clarification re: this year's bumper cleavage crop: Post-Modern Drunkard in no way endorses the ogling of women in public or in private without the express written consent of the cleavage holders in question. In all other instances, please observe the 2 second rule.
To: the Sun, re: your bet with the Wind. Okay, we got it. You're able to get us to remove our coats. We got it, really. You won. Claim your prize, and stop making it so fucking hot. Please. You can tell geological time using the layers of sweat on my balls. That's just not right.
To: My Mom. When you told me I might need psychiatric help and/or psychiatric drugs, my response of "Well, I do drink heavily to compensate," that was just a joke. Please also disregard the "Drunkard" part of "Post-Modern Drunkard." It's just a post-modern joke. That's what four years of college taught me. Oh, and thanks for telling me I'm crazy.