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He didn't cop gold, silver or bronze, but after balling all night on the periodic table and sending his cerebral cathedral rocketing into the infinite at 69 times the flippin' speed of light when light is in a hurry, he did cop a top-grade, rolled-in-the-soul, spun-on-the-tongue and tasted-in-the-brain extraterrestrial hemp medal, dig, for the Triple Wigflip Mental Pentathlon at the Hipster Olympics . . . But you see, M'Lords and Ladies of the Royal Court, he didn't make the medal-pinnin' gig, recalling instead what the Blessed Head William Blake once said about "no competition in the Kingdom of Heaven" . . . So that's why even in this late day when Christ and Yahweh hog the mike for Nike, when Disney Third World is a dream-team theme park and caffeinated carbon monoxide the drug of choice, that's why you won't find his High, Holy, Eternal Hipitude on the boob tube or his Pith-Helmeted Overwhelmingness on the 5-dollar bill or his Sesquipedalian Sweetness In Perpetuity on anything remotely resembling a half-assed drag in the Kingdom of Bringdown, because this cat was hip enough to have lost his head, when all about him were not only keeping but bronzing and franchising theirs.
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