Plotz is smartish man

Hello, I am extremely drugged right now, having come down with a mysterious illness. It's like being really dizzy after a carnival ride. Swirling, swirling, swirling, weeeeeee! People's faces, cotton candy eating mouths, big fat carnie types with grease stains down the front of their shirts, screaming children, swirling, swirling, swirling, STOP! Okay, I'm doing good... I think... hope. Okay, I'm good. (Forgive me if I don't show up for class tomorrow, but, you know, the spinning.) Hagrin. I have read the book of Joshua, and half way through Judges. Now that's a carnival ride in itself. Massacres, trickery, death, death, death, lots of death, guy getting a stake through his skull, a guy getting his head crushed by a lady from above, old men trampled to death, Sarah Palin shooting moose out of a helicopter... wait, that didn't happen. If the swirling stops for a second, I'll come to a conclusion I have been biting at with my mouth teeth: it's just as foolish to read too much into the violence, sex, and massacres as it is to read the Bible like a history book. (Ha! After rereading this sentence a few times, I found many spelling errors, not really spelling errors, more like I'm typing the wrong word I think I am thinking. Hagrin.) Plotz is a good guy, passionate, critical, modern, but he just doesn't get it. He's too full of himself, loves the smell of his own farts too much, to truly appreciate the absurdity, irony, and all those big words that I can't think of at the moment. Okay, I'll get off my soap box (however flimsy it may be) and ground myself so I'm not struck by lightning. Hagrin.

And yes, Hagrin is a word I made up right now.