YOU ARE SURROUNDED (SPECIAL STATE OF THE UNION EDITION)

"I didn't really like the look of penises right away," she said.

"Yes, I'll bet they are a little distasteful at first, but I'm sure you like them for what they can do to you," I offered, hinting at how we grow old and forget all things capricious and young.

There was a pensive silence when we both took stock of our lives, our desperate youth, failures and triumphs. We each spent a heartbeat in ourselves, reliving moments of wistful childhood, looking backwards in time down the path that had led us to now. Here, with our history and identity at hand we sat and wondered at their meaning.

"Kind of like my first beer," I suggest. An elegant sip of wine; the cobweb billowing of pipe smoke.

"Yes. Pretty much exactly like that. It's all cocks and beer, all the way back to the beginning of time."

So, then, is my evening of phalli and symmetry.

There are, quite literally, dicks everywhere today. I won't dwell on it, but I'm searching for a name for the emotion I'm feeling. Is it relief that this was the 8th and final State of the Union address from a man who, without question, is poorly qualified to deliver such a lecture? Sigh... I have nothing else to say besides such things are inevitable in this most disappointing of ages, when we shake our heads at the State of things, when history will judge us, mercifully, as unsuspecting victims of our own excitement rather than the able actors we are. We have created this world. There's no sense in denying that.

With luck, our children will view us as one would view a stranger with a Midwestern accent or a Southern drawl, well meaning but maybe just a bit lacking up there [discreetly indicates brain].

Alas, it would be unfair to say that my beloved president is the only dick in the dildo closet. Borders bookstore makes the list as well. Sadly, the ginormous "book" seller (which, incidentally, has equal numbers of DVDs as literary volumes, of which Legally Blonde rounds out the why-oh-why-must-we-have-a-embarrassing-taste experience) nudged my favorite used bookstore out of business (earthy smells, obscure thesis chapters). Those rat bastards at Borders stay open until 11pm, though, so, yes, that's where I was today.

Surrounded by hot, hot cocks.

It's not hard to notice what books will be jumping off the shelves this season. For instance, the "Sexuality" section at Borders (147 versions of the Kama Sutra, ancient and modern), which could also be called "You Might As Well Just Masturbate to 90% of This, Because The Rest Will Be Excruciatingly Painful for Your Pale, Flabby, Couch-Seasoned Body" with no less accuracy, occupies as much shelf space as "Fiction/Literature" A-K. Lump in the "Erotica," "Romance," and "Graphic Novels" sections, and you've just out-played every author of "Literature A-Z" in Borders's universe (with flesh).

To ram my point home, I'll tell you this: there were 1/4 as many books by Roald Dahl in total as the seminal, "Speeding: The Old Reliable Photos of David Hurles," which anyone a) with an MFA or b) who has been mistakenly invited to an "industry party" in San Francisco (never again, damnit!) will tell you, is full off hot, hot cocks. [What bibliologists often refer to as "folio-cock."]

I'm not a writer. I'll never write a bestselling novel. I will, however, tell you that if I ever do attempt to sell my work to the public, the only way that bitch is ever going to make me famous is if I call it, "Fuck Like a Champ: My Life as President by J. Sizzle."

...More...

I AM NOT MENTALLY CHALLENGED

We have most certainly become a nation of voyeurs. We watch reality TV. We visit celebrity gossip sites. We have "Lindsay Lohan nipple slips" in our search history. [We read self-indulgent, nonsensical blogs!] I am guilty, guilty, guilty in my own right. Sometimes I'll search for random phrases out there in the Interweb just to see what the universe throws back my way. Often it leads to someone's slice-o-life blog, which of course I'll read to see how other folks do it. I'm an internet voyeur (and not necessarily the porn kind).

My spine was fucking killing me this morning, so I searched for my+spine+is+fucking+killing+me just to, you know, see what the universe had to say about that. The universe said, "Chibbers down my spine bone." Google said, "...A FUCKING RAT. it was at least 5 inches long not including its mangy tail. it looked confused," which I thought was pretty interesting, since I had my own little rat rescue operation just 4 days ago.

Touche, universe. You have my full attention.

Then I started exploring Mazyface's livejournal trying to piece her together from the trail of crumbs she had left for others to find. What could I learn from peeking into this stranger's window? I learned that Ms. Mazyface had nice hardwood floors (under that rug). I learned she could probably do a little better for boyfriends, though the frequency of their sexual encounters seems pretty good, and I sense a great deal of warmth between them. I learned also that we share a penchant for watching people smoke bongs on YouTube and scrutinizing their home decor.

Alas, I do not know, and will likely never meet this person. Why then should I get to know her (or the online avatar that represents what I know of her)?

I realize, now, that my brain isn't as challenged as I had once thought. It's no fun to live a vicarious life. Are you emotionally challenged? Are you mentally challenged? I'll bet not. Hence, all, I request that you get up (yes, right now) find a stranger, and attempt to talk him / her into making out with you. [Note: if you are currently in a loving, committed relationship, have your partner pretend to be a stranger. A foreigner would also suffice. Swedish exchange students anyone?]

Think of the challenge, the feeling of satisfaction! The joy you will experience after communicating with a real live person and connecting, how marvelous it will be! Breathe sacred air and drink deeply from our community cup. Run your fingers through the thick, velvety curls of your very own personal interaction...

Plus, I mean... making out is pretty sweet on it's own, really. Kind of a win-win there. And I'll wrap this up by asking everyone to please stop fucking reading US Weekly. I... I think that was my point. One can really never tell.

...More...

PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE

Just like you, I wake up, nuzzle my pillow girlfriend, Katya, shower, dress, leave for work, arrive, rail 3 lines of Adderall and crushed up Altoids of a mirror in my top left drawer, take one deep yogic breath, curse Mark Moreford/Jasper Johns, kiss my photo of fat-Elvis, and open my email. Such elaborate ritualism braces my sleep-addled mind for the impending bitter splash of spam emails (and the occasional subpoena). Everything about this exercise is designed to block out all the negative subliminal indications of my (real or imagined) physical inadequacy.

disprovingg580@effectsoft.com not only knows the size of my penis, but s/he truly believes I need to "improve" its size, girth, and related woman-satisfying qualities.

Why so harsh, disprovingg580@effectsoft.com? What do you know that I do not?

And what of colonistsvx46@fraser-group.com and his/her insistence that I require a "PhallusKing-sizedTerrell?" The idea is intriguing in its mystery, and as I struggle to decode this secret message (intended only for me and my... PhallusQueen-sized Terrell?), I wonder if that's really the key to happiness. Doesn't every man covet that ExtensivePenisEmelia? That EdgardoSizeableCock? The elusive SchlongGreatestGary? Surely those grinning billionaires fondling AnorexicPerfect-bosomJane on their yachts have what I should have "down there:"

a DomingScholngMan-size.

You know what, wz-1@ouinet.com? I'm not going to fall for your ploy (and you can keep your millions, Mr. Nigerian royalty). Your Jedi mind tricks will not work on me. I realized this morning, while jacking the beanstalk desperately searching for the courage to face the world sans black-tar heroin, that, quite frankly, I'm pleased with my junk the way it is, thank you very much.

My stuff has an inquisitive nature; he smiles in the same graceful way a swan looks upward to the sunrise, thankful for the hope of new dawn. He is playfully cheeky in the nearly imperceptible way that he curves left, like one lightly-cocked eyebrow above a wry grin. What a trickster! Strong as oak, tender as a kitten, my junk is perfect as it is. So I say to you, inhabits8@vonfraud.com, you can keep your promises of a CockDinosaurRaul. I'm not buyin' it. Nor do I care to "Teach [my] Woman Obediencey!" as unblockede0@cyclepup.com would have me do.

No, I will not believe the hype. The Dance Dance Revolution will not be televised. I will not bend to your spammy will! I say to you, PenisHappyMen of Earth, do not submit! Rise up and stab at them with Sporks of Justice! Hurl great clods of melted jellybeans at their advancing hordes! Pillage their cybervillage, and hold their e-wenches prisoner with your perfectly acceptable, partner-satisfying, "nice-surprise, but not I'm-in-over-my-head-big" flesh sabers!

Let this be a warning to you, kingshipnry@greatcirclecapital.com, and all your scheming brethren, we and our "it's perfect, my last boyfriend was WAY too big, and I didn't want to have sex with him" penes are gunning for you!

...More...

AND A HAPPY OHMYGOD YOU'RE A F'ING MORON TUESDAY TO YOU!

I'm not a big fan of racism.

There I said it. It feels good to get it out. I am, however, an enormous fan of irony. I cite, for your benefit of example, the following excerpt ripped from the very headlines of our beloved and always-accurate-and-never-biased newspapers:

"About 25 white supremacists marched through a Louisiana town on Monday in a white power rally on the United States national holiday honoring slain civil rights leader Martin Luther King."

(They kinda do this every year).

Fine. Exercise your first amendment right to be a giant ass clown, I'm fine with that (and I'm required, by law, to suffer fools such as yourselves). I'm a firm believer in the right to speak your opinion.

I'm also a firm believer in paid fucking paid federal fucking holidays! Assuming for one moment that many of these lively ladies and gentlemen are, in fact, employed (employable?), doesn't that mean they're getting paid to take Martin Luther King Jr. Day off fo' pro'testin'?

I don't know about you, but my financial situation isn't such that I can just burn through vacation time or take an unpaid day or two off to pursue, say, any number of virtuous intellectual pursuits (e.g. coke and/or whores, etc.). Talk about moonlighting! I do believe that yes, I'd have to wait until a paid holiday (federal law 5 U.S.C. 6103) to do all my last-minute hate mongering.

Fortunately, January 21, 2008 was such a day! How convenient! Oh look, honey, little JR's softball and lynching practice are canceled as well! Looks like we can make that drive out to Louisiana... I'll start making a pie for your sister-in-law while you go tattoo the kids!

Wheeee!

Before anyone tracks me down and beats the life out of me in my own back yard, remember that my taxes pay for federal and municipal workers. I gave you some of my hard earned bucks to take a day off for racism. [pats self slowly on back with look of absolute and horrifying confusion on his face... the "2girls1cup" face.] Sigh...

There's room for irony, today, but there's no room for... "un"-irony, I guess, which I why I'm not even touching on Mike Huckabee's no-body's-gonna-tell-ARKANSAS-we-cyan't-fly-our-confederate-flag attitude, despite the fact I praised his tax plan in an earlier post. AND, I haven't even begun to torture his ass on this, the 25th anniversary of Roe vs. Wade. Says Mike,

"Sometimes we talk about why we're importing so many people in our workforce. It might be for the last 35 years, we have aborted more than a million people who would have been in our workforce had we not had the holocaust of liberalized abortion under a flawed Supreme Court ruling in 1973."

Pretty ironic, huh Mike?! Right?? Like, whoops, man I hate Mexicans so much, I wish I hadn't aborted so many feti, right?!? AHAHAHAHAHAHAAA! Holocaust, indeed!! HI FIVE!

Oh my fucking god, you're all f'ing morons (Tuesday)!

Oh.... I see, now. There's a hidden camera over there in the corner! And that's not a potted plant at all! It's Ashton Kutcher! (I should have guessed).

I beg you all, in light of the two anniversaries I mentioned in this post, please celebrate your special days ironically. Been happily married for 27 years? Celebrate by sleeping with an underage Thai hooker in your Escalade! Didn't see that one coming, did you, dear?! (P.S. I think you just got your next marketing campaign, DeBeers. You're welcome.)

Do it for me, and do it for Johnny. Happy anniversary!

...More...

AND SPEAKING OF...

Continuing on on today's (this weeks?) old-man-themed posts, I'd like to take this opportunity to say how pleased I am to be taking the night off playing me some motherfckng cribbage. It's a thing done by sagacious Midwesterners in warmly-lit cabins away from the frivolity of city life, a game that, like Paul Harvey and pancakes, is unlikely to change anytime between now and the apocalypse. Observe: "...If the card is a Jack, the dealer scores two points for "his heels", also known as "his nibs". This latter term is occasionally confused with "his nobs", which is more correctly used for a Jack of the same suit as the starter, scored during the show part of the game." How adorable is that, those aren't even jokes.

I've been mildly hungover for about 17 days now, 4% from drinking, 29% from going meat-free, 47% from consuming old milk, and 20% staying up to the wee hours of the morning cultivating a man-crush for Mandy Potemkin. I wouldn't ask me too many questions about that one if you know what's best for yourself.

This guy, I, [indicates self] needs old man therapy tonight:

1) Leg blanket for legs
2) Woolen cap
3) Esoteric card play (see above)
4) Gin gimlets
5) Company of those hard of hearing
6) Soup and/or easily-digested foodstuffs
7) Pipe
8) Slippers
9) Earthy aromas
10) Mandy Potemkin (??)

Comfort breeds contentment, and who would refuse such a regimen of quiet self-indulgence? Ho ho! Not I! Let's be old together, you and I, and let's indulge ourselves with a little wholesomeness, a little soul-restoring bowl of praline-pecan ice cream, a little old-fashioned Americana. Join me and fritter away our dinners in front of the fire, repeating every sentence twice, or even three times. Let's nod our heads in the amber glow of the evening, making oh-so-sure we don't confuse our nobs with our nibs.

...More...

ANOTHER TOTALLY F'D UP FRIDAY

Somewhere deep inside my brain, normally restrained by his whip-cracking, taskmaster superego zookeeper (think Colonel Klink), lurks a savage cavebeast, drooling, slobbering, and making horribly tasteless jokes. Poor, poor superego... battered by the deluge of vodka and greasy olive brine, wearied by the restlessness of fitful sleep, maddened by the unending adrenal tides of rising and receding testosterone... he's off today. The beast prowls...

It's another totally fucked up Friday in the great circus up there [indicates cranium].

1) On the way to work, I suddenly realized I get to guzzle oysters at my favorite bar this weekend. I love oysters. I love them. I love them so much, in fact, that I whisper, "I want you inside me" into their tiny, molluscan ears each time I eat one. You are the only person I've told.

2) I find the term, "The Wet Spot" offensive. I prefer "Sex Puddles" ("Love Puddles?").

3) A mini-coworker reminded me today that, yes, when I get old, I will also get "old-man-balls." Awesome. "Ever wonder why your grandfather shifts every time he sits down?" she inquires.
Without waiting for my response, she clarifies, "it's old-man-balls... swingin' down."
"Of course," I retort, "I call that 'The Grandfather Clock. Everybody knows that."

You wonder what a quarter of a million dollars in secondary education buys you? "The Grandfather Clock." Fucking priceless.

...More...

I ALSO APPRECIATE ISABELLE HUPPERT, LIKE, AT FIRT, AND THEN IT GOT KIND OF WEIRD

Shamefully, I infused my last blog title ("I something something Huckabee") with the lampooning media spirits that will probably lead to an incompetent man running for president of the United States on name recognition alone (dead thuds of my head on the desk, thud thud thud). In my heart I know I could have done better. In my defense, I do write these things as quickly as possible, alternating sly sips of Wild Turkey with paranoid glances over my shoulder and tweaky mouseclicks when co-workers walk by the office. (I don't think they'd ever look at me the same if they knew I was about to say, in the eternal and indelible ink of internet blogging, that Vanessa Redgrave is a smokin' hottie. But more on that in a moment).

First off, Isabelle Huppert is a smokin' hottie. Convince yourself of this by 1) turning whatever sinister parental controls to "none, you fucking fascists" on your favorite search engine and 2) searching for images of Isabelle Huppert. Quick note, though, roll the dice and take your chances if someone's lookin' over your shoulder. Let me just say that this little exercise aroused my interest in the matter. I was inspired. (In the pants... see what I did there? You would rather destroy a stained glass window than an artist such as myself. Oscar Wilde is high-five-ing me from beyond the grave, cheeky bastard. But since I can't have you following me...).

Or how 'bout this. Go and find yourself a copy of Storia di Piera (aka Die Geschichte der Piera, wheeee!). Lather, rinse, repeat. The young Ms. Huppert has the same art house appeal as a young Vanessa Redgrave (c. The Sea Gull). I tol' yoo I was gonna say it! Buster Poindexter said it best I think; "Hot, Hot, Hot!" He should know because he was David fucking Johansen!

Jesus, I'm ADD today. Ooo, clever segue! Ahem...

Just as time has stolen the glamor and glory from David Johansen (see, I tol' you!), it has been unkind to Vanessa Redgrave. Isabelle Huppert has faired better in my estimation, but those are the breaks. You either turn out a Kathleen Turner or a Judy Dench... sexy Brit-beast that she is. So, please judge fairly.

I'm a fan of Isabelle Huppert. Or at least for awhile, I suppose. During my research, I discovered she named her oldest daughter Lolita. Hmmmm... How can a parent, in all good conscience, name her daughter Lolita?! I can't understand it. It should have been off the market since 1955. You had me, and then you lost me, Isabelle. I can forgive a lot of things (some kid gave me lice in kindergarten), but I can't forgive that.

And so, like a sheaf of wheat, so is this post about hot older chicks sacrificed to make ready the fields of my future explorations. I give you a list of names that should never, under any circumstances, appear on a birth certificate after, say... 1995 to be fair:

Lolita, Wren, Elvis, Prince, Holden, Diesel, Sigmund, Carson / Cody / Hunter. They're all either way to obvious or just... for chrissake, you know? I mean, come on. Just name your goddamned kid "Batman" and be done with it.

Hell, it worked just fine for Nicholas Cage, right?

Ass.

...More...

I (GNARLY BLEEDING HEART) HUCKABEE?

WHAT?! What did I just say? I said what? Aside from his homophobic hate speak, his evangelical Dems-killed-Jesus attitude, wildly anti-evolution crotch groping, and general all-around-douchebaggery, I'm struck dumbfounded by the quality (yea, verily liberal-y-ness!) of Mike Huckabee's tax plan [which he, of course, will never, ever get the opportunity to explore... poor, sad, bastard that he is].

Who wants to talk politics on a Monday? Well not even me. However, I would like to give credit where Steven E. Landsberg told me to. "Abolish all ye, the Income Tax!," proclaimeth Mike, "And thou shalt collect only sales tax!" OK? OK, I say. Why not? You want to piss your hard-earned cash away on Jewel albums? Go right ahead! We'll use your tax bucks to build libraries (where you can listen to Jewel albums for free, you dipshit!)!

Sounds a bit like a flat tax, though doesn't it (also not at all my original thought. I steal from smart people)? Now hear this.

Fuck. That. Shit.

You need milk, cereal, bread, PB&J? Cool. 4 bucks. You want Lifelike Imported Italian Silk/Silicone Fellatio Attachments for your new Mercedes? Right on, brotha! Help yourself (and cough up the 25% sales tax on luxury goods I'm goan' levy on yo' ass, you sick son of a bitch!). Why? Well, might as well charge a little extra for all that groovy consumption that leads to ALL of us getting generally shit on by the vengeful climate gods, not to mention the pissed-off masses of motherfuckers sick of building useless USB gadgets for our dumb asses at a whopping 8 cents a pop. "Party hard, pay the piper," so my grandmother used to say.

Shit, the city knows exactly how much my house is worth. Why don't they grade... oh I dunno... the taxes on my energy bill based on my home's value (or square footage, or how many dirty hippies we have crammed in everywhere, etc., etc.). Neat-o! Or better yet, cut me a .5% sales tax break on domestic goods vs. imported, blow past all those silly tariff laws (and 100 or so years of economic theory), and put the decision in the hands of the consumer! 1% sales tax break on green products? WHAAA?? OMG, OMFG, Mom!

Bring on the black market I say. Sure, no one likes an anarchist, but if you're clever/desperate/bored enough to start trading on the black market, chances are you're not in the best financial position anyway. Good for you, you clever, little entrepreneurs, you. If you can afford the Auto-fellatio device described above, chances are you can afford the sales tax (and let's be perfectly frank with each other, if you find yourself with the afore-mentioned Auto-fellatio products, I'll bet dollars to donuts you're getting all the tax-free black market coke and whores you can get your hands on! Unless you're claiming all that as a business expense, then die, die, die you slimy fuck! GAWD, it feels good to be an American!). If you can afford expensive shit, you ain't gonna drive into the city to score your Christian Louboutins from a Puerto Rican guy with a van in an alleyway. (1. that's a slight against anyone who gets her look from "The Hills," not Puerto Ricans, and 2. don't ask me how I, of all people, know fuck all about Christian Louboutin or The Hills).

I'm sure this exactly how Mike Huckabee would have explained it, given the chance. Still, as I watch the agonizingly slow ticks of the clock, I feel I should spend the time to give some examples of my (stolen, unoriginal) stance on this form of taxation.

-Generic food products (i.e. substitute goods): 1%
-Bottled water: 10%
-Whiskey: 0.5%
-All Apple products: 25%
-Tasteful, high-class pornography: 1%
-Books: 0%
-Jewel CDs: 40%
-Anything from L.L. Bean: 45%
-Coke: 1%
-Whores: 1%
-Ugg boots: 80% - 90%
-"Product": 45%
-"Us Weekly," "Teen People," or any such publication: 90%

Thorsten Veblen, eat your fucking heart out. Happy Monday, Bitches! Oh yea, and screw Mike Huckabee.

(special neck rub for D today.)

...More...

HOO-RAY FOR SURFING!

It's been two years, give or take, since the Mavericks Invitational crowned a champion out in the HMB. Climate change (my cruel bitch mistress) is f'ing up the rotation! Still, I'm thinking monster waves this year, replete with all the carnage and brain-scrambling nastiness of 2006. Apparently, MySpace is rebroadcasting the whole shi-bing with all kinds of groovy camera angels and interviews and bikini surf groopies and awwwwwwwwww yea. I only wish I'd be out there, myself, with a big bowl of brazil nuts, a hot glass of Jameson, and a nice warm leg blanket for my legs, pops. If only I could find myself a bendy mermaid to teach me how to surf...

If you haven't ever heard of it, find yourself the time to witness the fitness.

...More...

I AM CLASSY (AND ALMOST 100% STD FREE, LADIES!)

My first reaction to the idea for this post was to start going to church again. Sadly, 4 Tylenol PM and a half-carafe of cough medicine couldn't exercise these demons from my head. I was conflicted. "Listen to your heartsong" I would say to the mirror in the morning, "it will never betray you." I listened. My heart told me I had shit for brains.

Then I met my coworker for 9:30 coffee, and I knew that this time was the right time to let this idea out into the world. K-rod, I hope this tale makes you feel better. After all, as my good neighbor so recently reminded me, I can't be afraid to reach for that rainbow. Ahem:

---------

I have been known position myself awkwardly among women (unintentionally brilliant double ententdre!). Don't believe me? See, if you will, oh I dunno... here here here here (2007 only!) and, not to put too fine a point on it, here. Yup. I roll big time. As luck would have it, a judge finally ordered me to get "Tested" last week (I know, I know... fascist), and I felt it necessary to spread the almost good news to almost all my partners. Those in the womens' prison will have to wait 'till the 1st of the month for their phone calls like always.

me: Hi, is this [Staci/Brandi/Chastiti/Cinnamon]?

(pause, muffled noises from the receiver)

me: It's 7:30.... I suppose that makes it... gosh, about 4:30 in the morning in Amsterdam. I guess I woke you up, but... (pause) we need to talk.

me: I got tested the other day, and I need to tell you that I'm almost 100% in the clear. But... there is this one thing...

(muffled, but decidedly angrier noises from the receiver)

me: I... think I got it from all the eating out I've been doing lately.

(icy silence from the receiver)

me: Honey, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but...

me: It's... it's KitchenAids. I think you should get tested right away.

------
Happy Friday, everyone. Keep reaching for that rainbow.

...More...

MY, WHAT BIG TEETH YOU HAVE!

And speaking of breach of etiquette...

Welcome to the new year, ladies and gentlemen. The smells of new spring mingle with the avuncular aromas of this silly pipe tobacco I've so recently taken to smoking. It's a disgusting habit, but I enjoy watching smoky ghosts bloom and arabesque into the whisper of drizzle outside my balcony. My mind wanders. I conjure images of intellectual pioneers; of bearded poetry dragons. Ginsbergs. The brain binds in Kerouacky tar. It's here I meet the close boundaries of my imagination. Shame on me for being so clumsy with my inherited erudition. But honesty is the proxy of talent, so they say, so share I will.

Tonight I'm the insomniac. Bless the little children wrapped tightly in blankets. Daisies in a moonlight meadow with only the specter of dreams to tease their imaginations. Pure white petals in pale starlight. I, on the other hand, I have the hands of the devil this evening. What of purpose these nights if only to stalk an invisible prey? Nothing to do! Nothing to say! Boredom in my backyard! Perfidy in my palace, for new readers dine with us tonight!

I had forgotten the sting of performance that travels with these posts. Let pilgrims in the door and more follow. Open your chest and your guts pour out. My point? Ha! Embrace the meta-irony! Charge into the dark, and grin with wolfish teeth. What better message than no message? (You're just showing off now!)

This is MY space! Freedom of ownership! You are welcome guests here, though. Chuckle and grin at the farce. But what fun, this con! Read on and find tiny gems amongst the sand. Relish the discovery, and try not to judge too harshly. It's just a proxy for talent, of course, but that's entertainment I say, I say, I say. C'mon in, all. There's room for plenty.

Just don't say I didn't warn you...

...More...

REBORN AGAIN

And so, once again, a cosmic do-si-so back into the arena. One dark night, whiskey, a warm girl, a stiff elbow to the ribs, a wisp of perfumed smoke, and the overwhelming desire to run my goddamn mouth off (due in no small part to my deep admiration for this rambling motherfuck) take me back here to the land of tasteless profanity, sentence fragments, absurd misuse of The Semicolon, and the orgasmic nirvana of seeing the contents of my brain shot across the expanse of cyberspace in rich, milky comets of literary subgenius. Oh yea, I do it for you (no greater than 2 readers per day, no doubt, but one does not blog for glory, only money, and this ride's free, blogger.com! [6 commas!]).

The general etiquette for an event such as this is a recap of recent developments to which your audience has not been privy:

Q: What have you been up to since our last chat?
A: Fuck you, that's what.
(cough. awkward silence.)
Q: Any major achievements since your last visit?
A: Fuck me. No. Not in the least.

Just like you, I've opted to arrange my life in such a way so as to be allowed as much fuckaround time as possible (equal emphasis on getting laid and/or/because of/in spite of alcoholism in the American standard but not the French [i.e. I am not currently intoxicated]). Hence the fresh-as-a-daisy attitude towards this so-called forum. Also, I miss laughing at my own jokes, swimming in the deep ocean of my sadness, and savoring the spats-and-top hat sophistication with which I so neatly turn a phrase. Gary Cooper is now sucking it in his grave. That's right. Suck it, Gary Cooper.

Plus I've accumulated a cadre of new villains to persecute: 1) Jasper Johns, 2) Mark Moreford, 3) Anderson Cooper, and 4) me (read the disgusting, self-indulgent archives of this blog. Alternate Sambuca and insulin shots. Shower. Repeat). Their/our offenses will be duly noted and exercised (but not excised; I flatly refuse to self-censor).

Please stay tuned for future (useless and confusing) instructions...

...More...