Month: August 2013

And So It Begins…

…another year. Officially, this is the last week of my so-called vacation. Tuesday, I start my daily tasks at the Foundation for another year. This year, there is an added bonus: college. Yes, college. Your humble deviant has been attending college in hopes of having some sort of degree to add to my legacy. It seems that people take you more seriously when a degree is possessed. While I like to think of myself as rather intelligent (extraordinarily so), I will feel much better about myself once I have a few letters behind my name. Believe it or not, I have decided to pursue a medical degree; a valuable asset with the Thunderdome exploring genetic research.

Yes, this is it: the last weekend of my “summer.” As has been the case for the last few years, I did not do much with my vacation from the daily drudgery of board meetings, public appearances, and general assorted mayhem. And today, will be just like the rest of those days. Instead of some crazy night out carousing, mingling, and possibly arranging a luscious night of sexual extravagance, I find myself inside for the evening. Just watch the side of my blog page, you will probably be seeing tweets about wrestling – which will be what my evening boils down to: wrestling, some show about psychotic, sociopathic women, and then off to bed to start the process again tomorrow.

Ah well, such is life. I guess I had one night of craziness this summer, so I really should stop crying. However, I am not in that sort of mood today. I have been in the most foul mood; I should crack open a bottle of absinthe and head out to the range. But I will not do that. For some reason, I find the misery of the day welcoming and do not wish to tempt fate by assuming that I could pull myself from the doldrums and live this weekend up like it is nineteen ninety-nine all over again. Perhaps I should find that flea-ridden Vice President of this beloved Foundation and amuse myself by tazing him repeatedly, and then stashing him somewhere in the catacombs under the Thunderdome. I wonder how long it would take him to find his way out? Longer and more amusing for me if I were to slip him a mickey after the tazing…

While tormenting dear Smeagol would cheer me for a bit, I would still have that impending doom cloud floating over my head like a misshapen parasol. Loneliness is a bitch. However, that bitch is my best friend sometimes, there are not many like me. Not many who can understand me, and I find myself falling short in the expectations of others. Remember Sister Constance? I do…

So…now what? I know what. I will do what I always do: suck it up underneath a patrician facade, and dance with the green faery until my legs fall out from under me. I will probably repeat this act tomorrow and Sunday and again on Monday…board meetings are always more entertaining with a hangover. With my mood as of late combined with the after effect of absinthe over-indulgence, I may have to have my secretary confiscate all of my “toys…”

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“…disconnect and self destruct…”

“…one bullet at a time…” – A Perfect Circle, “The Outsider”

I used to play this song in my Darkside Radio days, typically “The Frosted Yogurt Mix” (or what ever the rest of the title was). Maybe it was remix. Who knows? What I do know is that song has been stuck in my head for the bulk of the day. Sometimes, it feels good to be the outsider. Other times, it seems that one is just on the outside. I never could appreciate the latter of those feelings, I believe that I can now.

Last night, I scared the shit out of myself. I was watching a program on H2, it was discussing how the Earth has shaped human evolution. Well, toward the end, the folks on the show began to go on about how seventy thousand years ago, a major extinction event occurred. That was not a surprise, the majority of species that do exist, have existed, have gone extinct. So, hearing of massive extinction was not the problem. What sent me into a severe head-spin was when one of the guys on this show said that after the event seventy thousand years ago, MOST of humanity was wiped out. Approximately two thousand humans survived, enough to fill a “multi-plex movie theater.” Damn. Talk about your near misses…

All humans living today are descendants of that small population. Our genetic diversity is .1 percent (I really hated not being able to write that out, that will bother me for the rest of my life). It would seem that I, Lord of the Orchard, am closer in relation to those peons that work for me than I realize. Maybe I should be treating them better. I mean, we are all related…closely related. I suppose I could provide higher wages, fewer tazings, end the sixteen hour day, etc. But in the end, what do I have to gain from this?

I mean, is that not what life is all about? What is the use of spending anytime seeing beyond my beautiful eyebrows, if I am not seeing any benefit to my own personal being. Recently, I have enjoyed a rise in my number of followers. This pleases me greatly. Everyone should read my blog. Everyone should want to buy me drinks…and possibly sleep with me. But I digress, back to the followers. Some of them, I am rather enjoying. I can understand why they may have an interest in reading what your humble X has to put to word. I have ascertained that those people are not reading because of my superb writing skills (my hackery is legendary), and I may not know precisely why they read, but I can understand why.

Then there are others. Some that I have no idea why they come here. They should take Dante’s warning and abandon all hope upon entering here. Whenever I have gotten a new subscriber (follower is sounding potentially too cultish for me at the moment), I have made it a point to go to their blog (if they have one), and usually, I find something that makes me wonder why in the Hell would this person even think about looking for my blog? Admittedly, my last few entries have been rather tame, not very dark at all. But, these moments are few and far between. For example, I am actually writing this BEFORE getting into the absinthe, so things will be a little light. I feel the need to behave for a bit. I have no idea why.

Typically, I tend to be a bit obnoxious, pretentious, and generally carry myself in a supercilious manner. My ramblings range from the subtly erotic to downright pornographic. Okay, so I am not usually very subtle, and I have not really written any porn, but I am given to bouts of hyperbole. I am a person of contrasts, you are just as likely to hear Depeche Mode on my stereo as you are to hear classical music. jazz, or sometimes Johnny Cash (Johnny Cash is not country, neither is Willie Nelson. I hate country music). I love foreign films, comic books, threesomes, and I watch professional wrestling. Everyone should. It is a soap opera featuring large sweaty men rolling around in their underwear. And “Big Brother.” Along with those programs and shows about sociopaths, there is “Big Brother.” Seriously, my Twitter feed is all wrestling, “Big Brother” and #FF (I am a horrible tweet-er).

If I go to the bar, I prefer them to be pub-like or a gay bar. One of my favorite bars is owned by my diggity-dog Manthony. It caters to a mixed crowd of straight, gay, bi, what ever. I think I even saw a pangolin in drag there; Manthony claims it was a hallucination from one of those “party pills” I decided to enjoy that night instead of the usual Captain and Coke I get, I still say I saw a pangolin. A sexy pangolin.

My other recent subscribers I found during searches. To be honest, I probably found them by using “sex” as a tag search (is that what they call what that is?). I tried searching other things, and typically found people that I would rather beat with clubs before reading them and getting to peak at their brains through their writing…sex seemed to work well. Searching for sex, I found more outsiders. Finding them was good for me, maybe not so much for them. More than likely, finding them may give me a sense of uniqueness that will afford me to make more connections. Who knows? In any case, finding interesting things to read has provided a better distraction from the Foundation than television programs that wind up scaring the crap out me. Well, leading to a cycle of terrible thoughts that scare the crap out of me.

Now, please do not be offended, if you are reading this and have thought that I am talking about you, remember Carly Simon and realize that this song may not be about you. It probably is, but may not be, so do not get all cray-cray. What this is all about is my life on the outside. My life lived in perpetual Nielsen Family membership. My life spent listening, trying to understand, and fitting in; a life spent kicked out of the reindeer games because my jib is cut a little bit askew to the main. The panic from the near extinction seventy thousand years ago led me to thinking of ancestors of mine that suffered from dementia and other tragic ailments. I lived a life on the outside of my family as well. I think different, am different; I am the cliché black sheep. However, will my lack of romance with fried foods and generally healthier lifestyle keep me away from the flock this time? Our will genetics show that I am not really an outsider? Will it show that I am truly a part of that lucky rabble of two thousand that almost bought the farm for the rest of humanity?

Can’t Sleep, Brain Will Eat Me

The dream is always the same. It starts with an interesting night with wonderful company that eventually turns into naked people, pornography on the television, and crazy sexual antics. After the guests have passed out, the night ends with me going up to my room and leaving the arriving morning staff to remove the guests from the grounds…after a nice breakfast and apologies for “Mr. Rothechilde was called into the Thunderdome this morning and regrets that he was not here to see you on your way.” When I get to my room, I discover that a couple of guests had decided to explore the house, found my room, and proceeded to have their own grand old time.

They are sexy, and invite me to join the fun (which amuses me since it is my room and the only reason I had not gone nuts and started shooting at them or something was because they invited me to join before I could grab the Sig hidden on the bookshelf behind me), and I join them in the bed

Strangely, I am not disturbed by their lack of facial features.

One of them notices the collection of cuffs and collars and whatnot hanging on the far wall and goes to retrieve a set of leather wrist restraints. I am asked if I wanted to be restrained; I said that is not typically my role.

Strangely, I consent.

After I am secured to the bed, helplessly bound by my own devices. One of them pulls out a long knife and stabs me in the chest.

This is when the dream leaves and I am suddenly awake. Shaking like Charo’s tits at a hoochie coochie bonanza, and drenched in cold sweat. Now, I am remembering the lack of faces and get even more disturbed.

I wander downstairs to shake off the ickies, and wonder how long this dream is going to be a part of my now horribly non-circadian sleep cycle (no, that is not a thing, but it felt good to write) while chain smoking and sucking down absinthe and listening to the television in the background drone on with Sanjay Gupta talking about eating a dish that seemed to consist only of animal penises. He asked if he wanted tiger penis, would they have it. Apparently, the lamb balls and dog penis are not enough critter dick to sate his appetite.

Normally, I do not have nightmares, and when I do, they tend to involve judges and lawyers, or hippies, or having to buy clothes off of the rack. But this is weird. It has made me so paranoid that I may even be starting to fear trying to go to sleep. Instead of getting a little rest, here I am typing away (which feels good since I have had a block on writing for so long). Typing away and not even sure that I am making much sense. Really, this all sounded great in my head, but seeing it printed is not really pumping my nads.

Common sense is telling me that this must mean that I am pretty tired; I mean my title even has a fucking contraction in it, and I am too lazy to change it (or I may like the title, which probably means that I am pretty tired). Hell, I am even feeling too lazy to make sure that my tags are in alphabetical order; I think WordPress does that when the blog is published, but I am not certain at the moment, and have no desire to go and double-check.

This is dangerous. Is my anxiety regarding this dream actually trumping my OCD? Where the Hell is my ADHD during these dreams?! I mean, it would seem that I would get as distracted by the faceless fuckers (pun intended) that were trying to fuck and kill me in my dream and the scene would change to a Soundgarden concert or Saints Row or a nice cheese pizza. This is all pretty unsettling.

It was suggested that this nightmare may be the result of guilt or remorseful feelings regarding the unfortunate incident with Lord and Lady Phant, but I think it is something else. I am not sure what it is, but definitely something else. One of the night staff suggested that maybe having all of the dark imagery around the estate and grounds was doing the damage. Perhaps this is the result of having skulls and hearses and deathly erotic sculptures scattered through the lawns and orchards. I suggested to her that the problem may have been that I had too many smartass night staff people working around and should start cutting back on my overhead. She brought me another bottle of absinthe and retreated to the kitchen. I could hear another staff member trying to comfort her. Strangely, I feel guilty for snapping at her. I’ll have to leave a bonus for her tomorrow.

The Chauffeur

“…and the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart…”

Duran Duran, “The Chauffeur”

Except for the brief mention on the The Foundation Page, I do not believe I have spoken much about the other members of the prestigious Rothechilde Foundation. They are a wonderful group of people, without whom, the Foundation would not be the monster of charity that it has become. In addition, they are my “family,” in far more ways than one. They have all been selected by me to hold close and dear. That does sound a bit narcissistic, even by my standards; yet, we all have family that we have selected. Most of us choose not to say such things for fear of retribution from “true family.” I, however, am not bound by such limitations.

Strangely, the person involved with the Foundation that I probably depend on the most is my personal secretary. My secretary whom has informed me that her title is Executive Assistant. When I pointed out the irony of her taking such a corporate identity in the workplace, she replied that it was more to distinguish her from the Board Secretary, and to get her position printed as a proper noun. Besides, she said: “You would think you would be more concerned with the pay increase that comes with the title. Oh yeah, you wouldn’t. You have no idea how payroll works.” That is my girl. Snarkier than Dennis Miller mocking Bill Maher. But…

…without her, I would admittedly be a complete and utter confused mess. For example, she is the one who suggested that I try matching my Derringers to my ties or cufflinks, instead of my shirts (for some reason, I have been adding color to my wardrobe. I am terrified and elated.). That way, I could pick a metallic color from a paisley or something to highlight the color or the “pearl” handles. I remember a while back, I was obsessing and stressing over some legal issues regarding elephants and alleged amok-running. I had not come to Samurai City for weeks; choosing to stay at the Orchard and Estates and never leave my bedroom. I think I lost count of how much absinthe I drank that couple of weeks and I had a crazy beard. CRAZY BEARD!!! I had no idea that I was getting that much gray hair. I seriously considered getting some of that stuff the jocks advertise for “weird beards” and “trashed staches.” I have since abandoned that cray-cray and opted for a clean shaven look.

Whoa! That is getting way off track. As I was writing, No wash, crazy beard, drunk as can be thanks to Alandia. There, no we are caught up. Anyway, my secr..er…Executive Assistant (I personally think she likes this to fuck with my OCD and make me type more) shows up:

E.S: “Hey! Get up. Get clean. Get dressed. We need to head down to Samurai City. You have an important meeting tomorrow. Press conferences, insurance claims, all that shit is not going away because you want to stay home and hide.”

Me: “No, thank you. I think I will enjoy a few more days solace. The Vice President can handle these things. Is it really six in the morning?”

E.S: “Yes, it is. And no, I got here last night. I do have keys. You probably were passed out or just couldn’t hear me over that movie of you and Charlotte that you were watching. You’ve got issues, serious issues, dude. Speaking of which, she could always come and get you, she says. She’d be sooo pleased to have to show up and deal with you acting like a baby”

Me: “No, that will not be needed. Fine! I will go. But I am going like this…”

E.S: “Naked..?”

Me: “Grrr! No, I will go in my silk jammies and this robe. I even think I still have a pair of slippers to wear.”

E.S: “Oooh cute! You’ll look like the bastard child of Howard Hughes and ‘going-to-the-courthouse-Michael Jackson’!”

Me: “Ugh You. Suck. I will be ready in a few minutes.”

E.S: “And that is why you love me.”

No, that is not why. At least not the only reason why. I do not think that I can put all of those reasons down without turning this blog into some kind of sissy sap-fest, and I have to keep a certain level of testosterone about, you know? But I will say this, this something that may be better left unsaid. I am not sure why I love my Executive Assistant, there are far to many ideas that come to mind, and my OCD picks out the same one, and the ADHD chases it away; distracted by the Vulcan-looking woman discussing sociopaths in the background. One thing I am certain of is that I possibly love her too much. The kind of too much that is disturbing because it may both please and frighten tremendously at the same time. Scary, huh?

It could be scary if I were simply your run-of-the-mill-type person. I am pretty different. I have a hard time relating to most people on any level but the most superficial. The level of relation that is left to public speaking, or mingling, or demanding the highest quality apples and cherries from one’s orchards while keeping your overhead low. With my Executive Assistant, the relationship is most different; I can talk to her, and she always knows how to motivate me when I would rather spend the day with my head in her lap ranting about not knowing whether to cry or head out to the range and shoot every round that I have stored on the property. She deals with my alleged quirks, and stands beside me when I clearly may not be acting as my best self (a rare treat!). And she will not leave! Either she is the most loyal person in the world, or she is a stubborn criminal who has something important to extort me with; I have fired her many times and she always replies with “Yeah, yeah…” or “whatever,” or “No, I’m not. I’m sure you meant to tell me that I am getting a raise and more vacation time.” It is a good thing that she never takes me seriously with those shenanigans, or I would never be able to leave my closets due to not being able to decide what to wear (which is a total nightmare now that my clothes are more than black and white). Hell, I would be really screwed seeing that I do not know how to buy clothes and rely on her to keep me looking spectacular.

And those are just the things that she does for me, personally. Apparently, she is the one who communicates with payroll, purchasing, and all of those departments that make up the Foundation. She says all we board people do is squawk in the Boardroom, demand checks, and make public appearances to take credit for the Earth rotating while she does all of the work. I always counter that she is not paid enough, and we should vote on giving her a raise. Her reply: “You have no idea how payroll works…”

Which is true, I do not. Thank the goddess I have someone who does.