It's getting to be the cold season, here in the City of Salt.
When you are confined in your individual cell or oubliette here in the vast subterranean Prison State of Deseret, your own wails, your clotted coughs, your sniffles and cries - it makes you feel alone, all alone with the pain in your chilled finger-tips as you attempt to heat a tin of Kitty-Feed over a stub of candle in the darkness. It's only when you venture out onto the stairwell that the symphony of agony makes sense, that the muffled wails of your neighbors combine into a sort of orchestra of suffering, a community unaware of itself.
On this, the Holiest of Nights at Salt City Sinner, two things are becoming increasingly apparent.
First, that the Kenyan Usurper, B. Hussein "Barry Soetoro" Marshall-Davis, may well slink like the Beast back into Bethlehem / Washington D.C. Alestair Crowley had some nerve calling himself the Beast - obviously, Bam-Bam meets all qualifications from the racial to the Biblical.
Second, Mia Love is set to drive all over Jim Matheson like Bigfoot (tm) taking down a stack of wussy sedans.
It is with great dread and self-wetting and mewling that the editorial staff of Salt City Sinner welcomes Mia Love as Grand Vizier of Salt Zone Economic Region 12-B, AKA Salt Mine Grand Vizier.
Please, Grand Vizier Love, intervene on our behalf to your cruel Mormon God, that we might be granted a few moments' respite from the beatings, and the rapings, and the raping-beatings, and that perhaps in our supplication we may be granted a few additional hours of heat in the Salt Mines, or a few extra cans of Kitty-Feed in this, our hour of need.