What To Call Manolo's Deluge?

This is Michaelangelo's Deluge from the Sistine Chapel. I'm exerting myself to see how classy I can be when in such exalted company. That's why I'm only noting in very small print that this picture on Pet-Pet, another entry from the C of C below, was not immediately recognizable as a doggie, but rather appeared to me as some sort of extra-perky, crocheted ostomy bag.

Though I've tried, I've never been acknowledged by the Blogfather with an Instalanche. (Notice, I've offered no blue linkage , that's my editorial nuance of disdainful indifference.) Feh!

But why discuss what is not when What IS is so superfantastic?!

Today, I am delighted that so many of the readers of the celebrated bon vivant Manolo are here to read this post which your humble host contributed to the Carnival of Couture, since I, too, am the entity of the Renaissance-modeled ecumenism.

What shall we call this divine deluge of the fabulous unto our mean estate?

A scorching release of elemental energy like Manobyl?
Has he given me a Manolovation?
Is it a case of Manoverflow?

Probably not. I'm going to nap on it and upgrade as possible, but suggestions are welcome.

UPDATE: Meanwhile, in another case of bloggy synergy, check out Crazy Rants of Samantha Burns (and honor with your heart and mouse her doff of the tocque to Republic of T) to witness the Hoff being Hooked On a Feeling. The po-mo/weatherman feeling of performing in front of blue screen, I'll wager. There is much here of the man comfortable with his celebrity, but now that he and his wife of 16 years are divorcing, I hope he doesn't get too much browtoxing or a tacky sports car...wait, how can one tell if the Hoff's having a mid-life crisis?