2. Clearly I have not been thinking enough about Garfunkel and Oates, or at least not looking at them enough (always a pleasant prospect), because it’s only now struck me that Ms. Lindhome might as well be Garfunkel as the taller and blonder of the two, though perhaps Turning that Logic On Its Head is the name of this game, and Ms. Micucci is therefore Not Oates. I imagine I am somewhere around the 30,000th person this has occurred to, most of us independently, I’m sure.

3. I hope none of you are ever afflicted with the dread Peppered Queefs. I imagine this could be particularly problematic if Mr. Stratton was so stricken, albeit the men’s expression of this malady, while rare, is also quieter due to the smaller bore, if you get my drift. (See: flute v. sousaphone, or soprano v. baritone sex [sic]).

4. Looking forward to The Urethra Monologues.

5. And to the HBO series. Folks, don’t let them saddle you with the scripts the Flight of the Conchords never got around to…

6. Fine episode…thanks.

The first song I ever wrote went like this, “She is a rich bitch, sitting in a big ditch!” My sister and I would repeatedly sing this while we were playing in our neighbors front yard. There was a slight divot in her front yard giving us our “ditch.”