Have you ever seen the sun set over the northern pine. We have. And Boy is it beautiful. Like the morning lark or the soft whispers of the eerily fogs in London, together with the help of our friends, we hope to tickle your funny bones and arouse the sweet dew that drips gracefully down the crack of your ass. Some might ask how can I feel such sweet nothings. Well, just ask old man Carl in Central Park, for he sits on that rusty stoop yelling belligerent things at them.