March 28, 2007
New Yorkers, responding to Mayor Bloomberg's campaign against gun violence, have responded by killing each other with knives instead.
"Sure it's more work," said Manuel Ramirez of the Bronx. "Sometimes you have to chase the guy. But by killing him with a knife instead of a gun, I feel like I'm doing something for the community."
Daisy Harris of Harlem, who recently hacked her husband to death with a butcher knife during a domestic dispute, agreed. "There's an indefinable feeling of satisfaction. It's like popping a balloon or deflating a tire."
Defense attorney L. Turdley Putzman also concurred. "Juries tend to look more favorably on knife murders because there are no loud gunshots to disturb the neighbors."
Killing people with guns is a relatively recent historical occurrence. Throughout history knives and clubs have been the preferred weapons of choice for settling disputes. H. Smuckley Pato, curator of the Inmates Weapon Museum at Folsom Prison, which boasts one of the world's largest collection of homemade knives, is an incurable traditionalist when it comes to stabbing people rather than shooting them. "Remember, we're descended from apes. Using tools for extracting termites from logs for eating is an indelible aspect of our nature, and punching holes in each other is a logical extension of that. I wholeheartedly concur with this trend toward stabbing rather than shooting. It"s classical."
What does Mayor Bloomberg think? "It's ecologically sound not to waste lead, which is an unsafe substance to release into the environment.
"If you're going to kill someone, stab him," the mayor concluded.
THE OSCAR DE LA HOYA NASTY PANTIES COLLECTION color="#8080ff" size="4"> click here
http://www.200motels.net/delahoya.html
THE DECLINING WORLD PRICE OF PUSSY click here
http://www.200motels.net/WORLDTURNS.html
CHEAP SEX click here:
http://www.200motels.net/cheapsex.html
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 3/28/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 8186 Times
 Send to Friend
|
March 25, 2007
Is anybody capable of standing up to The New York Times?
Whatever the faults of that paper, they at least made the intelligent business decision not to champion the reactionary line in this relatively sophisticated city. Given the other papers’ refusal to recognize the existence of reality, that more or less leaves The Times a clear field among reader who retch at the thought of Bill O’Reilly or Rush Limbaugh narrating on themes of public policy.
Nevertheless, The Times is mortally flawed by an overarching delusion of its own social importance. This is a newspaper that considers itself an institution rather than a manufacturer of fancy fish wrapping, which is closer to the reality of the situation than its overblown editorial staff might wish to contemplate. No point in regurgitating the gaffes of that paper’s dysfunctional recent history, with a star correspondent being exposed as a panting, star struck administration puppet, a cokehead reporter plagiarizing and inventing front-page exposes, a journalistic ombudsman dismissed for telling the truth about the paper’s all-to-obvious defects, public self-flagellation and wholesale purges of its editors even as the public looks on in mute incomprehension like a pack of grazing kangaroos watching a hierarchical battle between a couple of its dominant males…
The Times is a shapeless, amorphous blob of spoiled, overfed baby boomers with such delusions of grandeur that they even have their own foreign policy, God Help Us. Recently it refused to review a play at The Jewish Theater about anti-semitism in contemporary Poland because the powers in charge determined that it would not be helpful to world diplomacy.
News management, self-censorship, ignoring inconvenient facts that don’t fit in with it’s half-baked concepts of reality – The Times is guilty of all this and more, ladies and gentlemen.
The voting shares of The New York Times Corporation are controlled by the Sulzberger family, who insist on filling the top corporate positions with members of their own family manifestly unqualified for that line of work. The Chairman, “Pinch” Sulzberger is so overwhelmed by his own incompetent management abilities (and believe me, with the self-entitled gang of pricks he has to control, you would need a Saddam Hussein or an Idi Amin to manage them. That’s where Rupert Murdoch gets my respect – nobody at The Post or Fox would dare to pull the kind of primadonna antics that have come to characterize The Times) that in an unguarded moment he even allowed as how The Times might not even continue to publish – and he wouldn’t care. This is not the statement of a manager who is in control of the situation.
Recently The Post’s Page Six reported a screaming match at a dinner party between Times Managing Editor Jill Abramson and a playwright who felt his play had been shafted by The Times,and given the convoluted internal politics of that company it’s easy to believe. The play in question, “Magical Thinking,” went on to be a hit, with $4 million in advance sales despite the hatchet job, which shows how much authority The Times, or indeed any newspaper, really possesses. Abramson grandly announced, “We are the central arbiter of taste and culture in The City of New York.”
Whoa! When I hear that I know I have got a problem. The Post, for all its obvious limitations will declare “We are a great newspaper,” and leave it at that. But when you have got a building full of self-inflated nut cases like The Times endowing themselves with magical, god-like status, it’s like the old Cheech and Chong movie where the boys are frantic to escape the crazy inmates in the mental hospital until they finally run into a guy who appears to be the Voice of Authority – and soon reveals himself to be the most insane, most dangerous lunatic in the asylum.
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 3/25/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 418 Times
Send to Friend
|
March 24, 2007
Naomi Campbell demonstrated once again what a witless moron she is by appearing immediately after her community service in an evening gown, pushing it in our face how exclusive she is.
She was blessed with classic beauty, but not with classic brains. Instead of using her beauty to bring happiness to the world, she insists on following her low instincts and trying to show how superior she is to the rest of us.
Unfortunately for her, physical beauty is something that fades with time, and ultimately you are left with a mirror image of your true nature.
If Campbell would have been smarter she would have brought a stylist with her to the sanitation facility that she was assigned to and jazzed up her work outfit. Then she could have done a little catwalk for the photographers with the orange vest, the boots and the broom and the world would have loved her for it. I guarantee you that in three months’ time the runways of Paris would have been bursting with “le look éboueuse” the sanitation look, with pigtailed models pushing brooms to songs like “Stick Out Your Can, Here Comes The Garbage Man.”
Instead, Campbell decided to show the vindictive, vengeful side of her that we already know so well, that is so prevalent in New York, characterized by other such humorless fucks as Donald Trump, Rosie O’Donnell and numberless other cretinous big shots.
Nobody has a sense of humor anymore, and even fewer New Yorkers are inspired by any kind of magnanimous or humanitarian instincts.
I hate to give advice and I hate even more to receive it, but Naomi Campbell could have turned the unfortunate, vicious actions of her past to her advantage by using them as an excuse to make a gracious, charitable gesture to the kind of poor creatures she used to victimize by making a donation to battered women, or visiting a women’s shelter. It would have taken five minutes of her time, but it would have made New York a more wonderful place, and it would have done her public image a lot of good too.
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 3/24/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 482 Times
Send to Friend
|
March 20, 2007
Just like the real estate boom of the real estate boom of the last few years is driving people out of New York because they can’t afford it, the high cost of sex is driving me out of women’s butts.
Women have learned to drive up the market price for pussy and it’s forcing working stiffs like me out into the cold.
Women don’t like me to begin with. Maybe it’s my cheap discount store deodorant, or my K-Mart designer jeans.
In order to cut down on unproductive dates, I invented a portable estrogen test so that I could find out in advance if a woman was ovulating before I spent all my money entertaining her. I would wait until she spat out her gum or put out a cigarette, then I would go to the bathroom and put the butt in the little plastic tray. If the goo turned blue, it meant that she wasn’t ready to have sex. In that case, I would go back to the table and tell her that my grandmother had just died and abruptly call off the date.
If the goo turned red, however, that meant that she was horny. In that case I would return to the table with flowers and blow my whole check on her.
This technique was wildly successful for a while. I even made money selling my little estrogen test to other cheap, horny men.
The problem is, the word soon got around. Men started talking up the test to other men, and women who got stiffed started complaining to each other. Now, when women start thinking the results are invariably bad for men, and the girls developed a counter-strategy of getting cigarette butts and used gum from their horny girlfriends and leaving them around for the men to pick up. The men would seize the bait, rush into the men’s room to test it and when it glowed bright red they would run back to the table and spend their whole week’s pay on the women, who would then thank them with a handshake and go home by taxi.
The men, not realizing that they had been outsmarted (again), would come back complaining to me that my estrogen test was a fraud and demanding their money back. I even got beat up a few times.
So I went back to my little chemistry set and developed a cologne that was irresistible to women because it contained the active ingredient that the U.S. Treasury puts in the ink they use to print money. I started marketing this to men, and soon all the men were walking around smelling like freshly printed hundred dollar bills. This drove the women crazy, and they were throwing themselves on their backs the minute the guys walked into the room.
This time, however, it caught the attention of the Gay Liberation Front and its diabolical leader, Christopher Crystalballs, who was a mad scientist dedicated to turning all men gay. He broke into my laboratory and contaminated my cologne with an ingredient that made you smell like a guy’s butt when you put it on, and the worst thing about it was that it wouldn’t wash off.
This drove the women away in droves, but it attracted gay guys like flies, and you couldn’t wash it off. This time men were coming back to me and not even demanding their money back, but just beating me up.
By now I had had all the entrepreneurial drive beaten out of me. So I just went back to trying to figure out how to get laid on the cheap. I found a place in Jamaica, Queens where you could get laid for just five bucks. It was called Ahmed’s Halal Butcher, where they slaughtered sheep and goats for the shish-kebab vendors who sell food from the hot dog stands on Sixth Avenue. For five bucks Ahmed would let you have sex with the animals before he slaughtered them, and for another five bucks he sold you a couple of pounds of lamb chops for a souvenir.
The only problem was, you had to invest $89.95 for a pair of fisherman’s hip boots to wear when you were having sex with the animals. You were supposed to wear the hip boots and then put the animal’s hind legs in, so it couldn’t run away.
I found this to be too expensive, beside the embarrassment of wearing the boots on the subway on the way to and from my “dates.” Anyway, I would prefer to have sex with human beings if possible. Then I remembered an old Spanish proverb that had been taught to me by my grandfather:
“Si tu no tienes chavo para comprar una mujer, el maricón puede ser tu mejor amigo.”
Translated into English, it means, If you don’t have money for a woman, a gay guy can be your best friend.
I went down to Ricky’s Costume Store and bought a rubber mask of Hillary Clinton. Then I went down to Chelsea and hooked up with a gay guy. Then I laid the guy facedown and put the Hillary Clinton mask over the back of his head so that it was facing up. Then I jumped on the guy.
I was happy, the guy was happy and Hillary Clinton was happy.
Shit, in life you have to make compromises!
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 3/20/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 426 Times
Send to Friend
|
March 16, 2007
GUANTANAMO
(sung to the melody of "Guantanamera")
At night all the Arab terrorists incarcerated at the secret prison at Guantanamo Naval Base in Cuba sit around the campfire, strum their guitars (which is pretty hard with handcuffs on) and sing this song.
Me want to go home
Me no like-a dis jail
The food here is rotten
An' me no get-ta no mail
An' it's hot as hell-a
An' de other guys smell-a
Guantanamo
No like-a Guantanamo
Guantanamo-o
No like-a Guantanam-o
I want to be back
In Afghanistan
Sometimes I chop off a head
Or chop off a hand
And Bin Laden's The Man
And we read the Kora-an
Guantanamo
Oh baby no me gusto
Guantanamo-o
The place where it never snow-ow
Me try to excape
But me no swim very well
There's sharks in the water
And the guards shoot to kill
And the heat make me ill
And the food taste like swill
Guantanamo
Oh baby no me gusto
Guantanamo-o
I want to go home-o
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 3/16/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 357 Times
Send to Friend
|
March 11, 2007
“Hi folks and welcome to our show. I’m Jerry Springer.
“You know, when Frank Sinatra sang “Fly Me To The Moon,” he meant it in the romantic sense. Little did he know that in just a few years’ time romance would actually fly into outer space, and with romance all the messy complications that go along with it.
“Our show today proves that people can go into outer space and fly to the moon, but they can’t leave human emotions behind them.
“If you substitute boats and the ocean for starships and outer space, you have a story that could have been written by Homer or Shakespeare. What makes this story relevant to us as inhabitants of the twenty-first century is how little life has changed, because in spite of all efforts to breed a race of technologically efficient supermen and women, unhindered by emotions, we are now confronted with the fact that human nature will follow us even as we cross endless reaches of space to uncharted destinations.
“Today’s story concerns two women and the man they loved. The women – strong, intelligent, highly trained scientists. The man, strong and highly trained but maybe somewhat less intelligent. What we’ll try to discover here today is what they saw in him and the lengths they were willing to go to in order to possess him.
“Our first guest is the girl he left behind – on earth, I mean. Although she is a highly talented engineer in her own right, she is the only member of our three scientists who has never lifted off into space. But let’s let her tell her own story. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a big welcome to NASA scientist Colleen Shipman!
“Miss Shipman, welcome to the show.”
“I thought I was going to be on Oprah!”
“Can you tell us in your own words about your relationship with astronaut Bill Oefelein?”
“Well, as you know, I’m a highly trained electrical engineer and fluent in German, but I felt something was missing in my life.”
“And that would be…?”
“A dick. A big, hard dick attached to a man’s body.”
“I see. And Bill Oefelein seemed to fit the bill, even though he wasn’t so smart.”
“I’ll say. We would be in bed together and he would call me by somebody else’s name.”
“And that didn’t bother you?”
“Brains in a man don’t interest me. I’ll do the thinking. I just needed a man with a big, erect masculine member to get in between my legs and push.”
“Well, now that we’ve got that established, let’s bring out our next guest, astronaut Lisa Nowak. Miss Nowak, welcome to our show.”
“You didn’t tell me she was going to be here!”
“Miss Nowak, you went to extreme length to eliminate your romantic rival. What were you going to do to her with six feet of plastic tubing and a hammer?”
“I just wanted to try to convince her to go away. He was mine.”
“You’re crazy. He was sick of you. He loved me.”
“He loved me, you teutonic German bitch. Why don’t you go back to your country?”
“I was born here, you nut job! They’re going to put you away where you belong, in the nut house, and then Bill and I can come and visit you and feed you popcorn between the bars, you hysterical lunatic!”
“I’m going to kill you right now, you whore!”
[Lisa Nowak runs over and grabs Colleen Shipman and the two start fighting. The band plays “Stairway To Heaven” as the show’s bouncers separate the women]
“Let’s bring out the third member of our drama and see if we can get him to explain what drove him from the arms of one woman to the other. Ladies and gentlemen, the man with the key that unlocked the love of these two women, Hero Astronaut Bill Oefelein!
“Bill, can you tell us what you first saw in Lisa Nowak?”
“Well, she was real sexy floating around the space shuttle cabin in her astronaut diaper. Also, she gave me a great hand-job with the shuttle’s robotic arm.”
“And Colleen Shipman…?”
“She was totally wild in bed. She used to scream at me in German while we were doing it.”
“What did she scream?”
“She used to scream about invading Poland. She called me ‘Mein Fuhrer.’”
“That’s enough to make any man’s hair stand up.”
“And the rest of him too!”
“Bill, how could you betray me with that nazi after all we meant to each other?”
“Bill, why didn’t you tell me you were still seeing her, you swine?”
[The two women attack the man, beating him to a pulp, as the band plays on]
“Well, folks, that’s our show for today. Remember, hard as it is to build rockets and shuttles to go into outer space, people’s love lives are even harder to navigate.
“I’m Jerry Springer.”
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 3/11/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 526 Times
Send to Friend
|
March 04, 2007
I’ve been to pray at synagogues, and things only got worse. I prayed for my mother to live and she died. I prayed for my career to get back on track, and it collapsed.
I’m not saying that the spirits of my ancestors and the Jewish people don’t like me, but it’s a possibility. I never have had very much luck in life, despite all my effort.
I’ve never been observant. Most religious people that I have known have been thieves seeking to mitigate their guilty consciences.
Frankly, I’ve had more luck with what I call Off Track Praying, or non-traditional religion. I sort have chosen my own gods to pray to out of desperation, like Tom Hanks in that movie where he was marooned. My choices have not been as inspired as praying to a volleyball with a face painted on it, but they work for me.
Organized religion is a bait-and-switch situation that lures in with one thing and you end up buying something inferior. Better just to settle on your own gods and pray to them. If you choose to pray to a god and you don’t get any satisfaction, you can always change gods around until you find a combination that gets results.
Praying to the big religions is like having to choose between Wal Mart and Target to do your shopping. The choices are too big and generic to have any impact. They’re not tailored to the individual, but are so generalized as to appeal only to the most desperate believer. What you end up with is a bunch of irrelevant ceremonies and restrictive rules of behavior that don’t get results.
And results are what count. I never got anything I ever wanted by praying to Judaism, and I never achieved any emotional satisfaction listening to endless moralistic sermons preached by rabbis who have never had any life experiences to draw on except for some theological institute stuck somewhere in the suburbs of Ohio. These guys are just paid agents of the status quo (female rabbis, I’m not even going to go into here).
My system is based on Buddhism, which says that the spirits of your ancestors are present and listening when you pray to them. The difference is, what the fuck do I care about my ancestors, who were a bunch of pricks that never did anything for me? My mother’s family were antediluvian suburban slugs and my father’s family, bless ‘em, are the next thing to the swine who murdered other Jews for Hitler so they could stay alive. Only instead of being a case of life or death, they left me to rot just to economize a few bucks. I hope they’re reading this, the pricks. They never did shit for me and I’m hoping to return the favor going forward.
Anyway, if you accept the theory that spirits of the departed are still with us in one form or another, and that you can reach them through the power of prayer, then the trick is to find spirits that work for you. I can envision a situation where crowds of people in baseball caps ride the train to Yankee Stadium to bow and pray to the spirits of Babe Ruth and Whitey Ford! When you think about it in that context, the idea has dynamic possibilities.
It works for me. The last time I was in Paris, I visited the grave of Jim Morrison in Père Lachaise Cemetary. The place was thick with kids, and there were plenty of cops too. I was loaded, naturally, and while I was standing in front of Morrison’s grave I had the inspiration to try to profit from the opportunity by praying for good luck.
“Jim,” I said, “I’m an artist too. I need a break. Please help me break out with my art.”
The kids standing around me looked at me with their eyes bugged out like I was a lunatic. Fortunately, I have never been susceptible to public opinion.
The result was almost immediate. The next day the plumbing crashed in the studio apartment I had rented on Ile St. Louis and the rental agent moved me into a two bedroom luxury apartment in the same historic building on Rue de l’ancienne comédie that houses the world famous Comédie Française theater group that was founded by Molière, right across from the Café Procope, where Molière and Beaumarchais hung out dating from the seventeenth century.
Coincidence? All I know is that the day after I said a prayer at the grave of Jim Morrison I ended up living like royalty in a huge luxury apartment in an historic building in the heart of French artistic expression. Some people go to church and pray all their lives to Jesus, and for their trouble they end up living in Cambria Heights.
I wish some of Jim Morrison’s luck would have followed me back here!
Here’s another example of praying for luck to “non-traditional” sources. When I take vacations on the Mayan Riviera of Mexico’s Yucatan peninsula, I always make a point to stop by one of the ubiquitous archeological sites throughout the area to offer a prayer to the Mayan spirits. I always pray to them in Spanish, and I am not shy about asking for favors. The good luck I get from the Mayan spirits follows me back to New York, unlike Jim Morrison’s spell,and I always end up getting new jobs and enjoying robust health. But the last time I came back from Mexico, I promptly got my arm broken in a bus accident, and now I got a fat lawsuit against the MTA, which my attorney is very happy with. Ordinarily it’s a catastrophe to break your arm, believe me, but when the MTA does it for you in front of an unimpeachable witness (a law librarian, yet) – I call that good luck.
The Mayans weren’t such good luck for that cocksucking prick Mel Gibson, who made a movie characterizing them as bloodthirsty savages. Instead of appreciating the finer points of their civilization, Gibson preferred to dwell on some of the less appetizing aspects of their history (who is he to judge?), so the Mayans weren’t good luck for him. Ol’ Mel hasn’t been having good luck lately, and he didn’t appear at the Oscars.
My acquaintance with the spirit world goes back a lot longer than the two brief instances I am relating here. When I was a young person I traveled and took a lot of chances in life, which doesn’t exactly fill me with admiration for the young people I come into contact with now, living at home with their parents and being supported by them, all the time acting like big players. No matter. I ended up in Montreal, where I operated a leather boutique on that city’s “Boulevard du crime,” Ste. Catherine Street, for many years. That boutique was a very wild place which certainly would have been closed by the police anywhere except Montreal, a city that has a very elastic concept of morality. It was a version of “Friends” featuring a cast of frenchified, dope smoking, fornicating subversive radicals. I even had the cops on my side.
The carryings-on in that place were so wild, and went on for so long that even I was amazed at my enduring good luck. It was only later in life – after I had finally been run out of town by an enraged establishment following a particularly provocative episode involving a Halloween fashion show at a comedy club, that I realized that my good luck must have come from the fact that my boutique was located next to The First Spiritualist Church of Montreal, a group of mediums and crystal ball gazers, and that the spirits attracted to the place must have found my little three ring circus of freaks, schizophrenics and nut jobs vastly more entertaining than the sanctimonious psalm-singing and strenuously arch attempts at ouija board trans-meditation techniques engaged by the people next door. There’s no question that some kind of higher power must have been protecting me, or I would have been sentenced to jail ten times over, so oblivious was I regarding any concept of civilized behavior.
This could all be in my mind. Maybe I should check myself into Bellevue for a nice, restful repose in the Lunatic Suite. I’m not discounting the possibility. If my track record in life is any indication of the state of my mental stability, then I have to admit that my mind is a fucking mess.
Anyway, what do you care? The purpose of this blog is entertainment, not theological rectitude, so if you’re looking for the Voice of Authority, you better leave right now, because this show will bring you down so much…
The purpose of this blog is that I’ve been praying to Jim Morrison in France and Indians in the jungle, and meantime I’ve been ignoring my main god, the one guy who has shone through to me like a beacon in a tempest. I love this guy better than any woman I’ve ever known. Everything he ever put his hand to has been an inspiration to me. I named myself after his discordant, dysfunctional symphonic masterpiece, “200 Motels.” He told both Al Gore and Ronald Reagan to go fuck themselves. He’s a hero in Europe and a non-person whose identity has been virtually erased by the American establishment. I’m talking about the incomparable, inimitable American master of composing, guitar playing and comedy, The One And Only (drumroll)… FRANK ZAPPA!
Frank Zappa! A greater guitar player than Jimi Hendrix, incomparable comedy writer, composer, poet and sound engineer; a prescient social critic and commentator, an example of American genius abroad in a time of stinking, rancid leadership in this country, Frank Zappa was the last half of the twentieth century rolled onto one scintillating package of talent. I would need to write a book to express everything that he means to me.
Though I saw his act many, many times, I have never prayed to his spirit because in my system you need a place where his spirit might be present. I don’t know where he is buried, or even if he would hang around a cemetery which, let’s face it, is not likely to be the kind of floating crap game that Jim Morrison’s is (also, the cemetery where Morrison is buried, Père Lachaise, is the greatest cemetery in the world, where the tombs are like mansions).
Maybe Zappa’s spirit can be found hanging around some tacky drive-in restaurant parking lot, cigarette hanging from his mouth and his guitar around his neck, jamming the shit out of his wah-wah bar while waitresses on roller skates go zooming right through his transparent body, like in one of his songs. Who can know?
So in the case of Frank Zappa’s spirit I’m going to take a different approach which is freakin’ peculiar even for somebody like me. I’m going to pray to Frank Zappa over the internet, in the hope that the words of my prayer, converted to digital impulses propelled through fiberglass cable and bounced off satellites orbiting the earth, find their way to his spirit, who will be moved by them and use his astro-intestinal powers to affect an oh-my-papa in the earth’s crust and shuffle around the deck of possibilities so that the cards of fate deal me a hand of aces.
Hey, what have I got to lose? Probably anybody who started reading this swill has already given up, so the chances of this stupidity gaining wide circulation are virtually nil. If this prayer reaches the ear of Frank Zappa, then he will surely respond because he knows I love him, and in a year’s time I will be a huge comedy star.
So, bend over and spread ‘em, ‘cause here come my bullet!
A PRAYER TO FRANK ZAPPA
Oh, Frank, Grand Wazoo, Sheik Yabouti, Great Master of Comedy and Rock ‘n Roll, hear my plea and help me to become a huge comedy star. I got everything it takes to succeed as a fuckin’ moron in this world except for luck.
Everything I ever wrote has been dedicated to your greatness, like when I had those strippers whipping that guy during my fashion show, or when I did my ventriloquist act by strapping a dildo to a teddy bear.
I fucked Mel Gibson in the ass dressed as a rabbi onstage at the Comic Strip, shot whipped cream up my nose in a salute to Paris Hilton and was the only person to display Rudolph Giuliani’s panties before it became common knowledge that he was a drag queen, yet nothing seems to work. I can’t get no traction for my act!
Frank, I’m sick of working lame fucking day jobs for a bunch of stiffs. I want to be headlining in Vegas, smoking reefer with Joe Frazier and Vinnie Pazienza backstage at HBO Boxing Night, fucking around with showgirls and pole dancers. I want a female personal trainer and a whole gang of naked women in the hot tub of my mansion in Miami.
I want to do naked mud wrestling with a pair of twin lesbians on Howard Stern and get a million-dollar book advance. I want to have a band and cause riots and pandemonium in nightclubs. All this and more, O Grand Wazoo. Please hear my plea and get me out of my girlfriend’s apartment, where she dogs me night and day like a jailkeeper and drinks up all my money.
If you hear this prayer, send me a sign, like a huge, smoking blunt in the sky that I can inhale the smoke and catch the first jet for Miami. All this and more, O Grand Master of the Endless Universal Guitar Solo. Amen.
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 3/4/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read 412 Times
Send to Friend
|
