satire

Bed of Roses

While pretty, I am best viewed from afar.

Greetings and Salutations!

For some strange reason I decided to overhaul this blog instead of just trashing it. Originally, my plan was to delete the thing and end this voyage and abandon any dear readers that I may have collected along the way. Readers which I am certain have moved onwards and upwards and have forgotten about an alleged narcissicist with  tendencies for degeneracy on scales that can only be measured with “epic” as a qualifying adjective. But I ditched the plan. I have no reason why I have done so – I was having a bastardly bastard of a time coming up with things that I felt were relevant enough to write about (and we all see where that went…). And beyond explaining what has happened it the eon that I have been away, I find myself wondering if I will have material beyond a few days, maybe weeks.

Now, things have changed. I have moved on to a new chapter in my novel existence (see what I did there?), and wonder if the coming experiences will rate sharing with others. It is not that I feel that my life has become or will become boring…that is not something that I believe is possible for me. What is at issue is that I have been avoiding – the collapse of The Foundation. Yes, the collapse of the what was the single most beneficial asset to Samurai City. From beginning to end, the tale is one that I am sure would amuse, horrify, and possible bring about several more indictments; it may be told on various turns of your humble narrator’s new adventure, but do not plan on it (for any of you that care, for those of you that do not…pick a finger). The fall of the Creator of the Thunderdome is a tale wrought the joy, sadness, treachery, and ultimately, a tragedy of Greek literary tradition. But our Foundation life was not a bed of roses, this way is better for us (snicker). Needless to say, instead of focusing my empire on “charity,” I decided to go back to the University. A career in psychology/psychiatry seemed like a new and exciting path for Dear Xavier, so I packed up my office, and traded my ledgers for textbooks.

We all press the lever for food.

The road back to academia was an interesting and treacherous one. I found myself immersed in a culture of students that were significantly younger than me. Now, I am not unused to being around young people, but typically I am bossing the younger people around like some self-important autocrat. However, they younger people are now my peers and colleagues. I am now faced with having to remind myself that these are people with opinions that I owe the same consideration and respect that I would give my fellow Generation Xer’s or some junk (which is not necessarily all that much). Still, the journey has been pleasant, despite learning that I still can count mathematics as an area that I am lacking in superiority. I have also learned that psychologists are an incredibly interesting lot of people.

 

I think the best part of the journey that led to my literary hiatus was  that I got to avoid discussing the 2016 election. I also have to struggle to refrain from speaking of the result of that train wreck. 2016 will always represent where three to four decades of dismantling public education will lead. I cannot even bring myself to watch the news anymore. However, this is not a bad thing because I can avoid local news stories that have not gone away (I get it, the Thunderdome and Arboretum would make an excellent public park and demonstrate good will to Samurai City after the unfortunate turn of events that may have involved the Foundation! I said I was thinking about it assholes!).

These are not real babies.

In addition to avoiding the election, I was able to rediscover a few old interests. Namely, photography. I have turned into one of those people that is an unabashed and unashamed iPhonographer. See that shit? I even used tend-iLanguage to talk about my old/new thing. I am not sure why it all started. I mean, it could have been when I was taking naughty innocent pictures of various sex acts statues. It could have been when I got the idea to take a bunch of babies used for teaching how to not abuse babies and arranged them into neat photos. Whenever it was that it started, it started and now it is a thing. One thing that does not bother me about my journey into iPhotography (I am addicted, maybe?) is that I cannot take selfies. It bothers me that I had to type “selfies” multiple times to discuss this, but it was unavoidable. You see, dear readers, it seems that my arms are in fact too short for me to take a decent self-image. No, it is not an angle thing. No, it is not an inability to frame an image. My arms or too fucking small to take one, and I refuse to use one of those horrid sticks. Instead, I have to request that others take pictures of me, and aside from my secretary, I trust the photographer responsible for the image of me featured above (and one other). Other people will make my head to big or get my fat side or get too much forehead or not tell me what do in the picture so I do not look like a hideous fool. This is why images of myself tend to be a year old, maybe two.

What does any of this have to do with me? Loser!

When people quit smoking, or retire, or elect a dangerous Ferengi that had ear reduction surgery to public office, they tend to remember the date that the deed was undertaken. People remember import, significant, life-changing events. So, it would seem to reason (to me) that I would remember what date the doors to the Thunderdome closed leaving the looming structure abandoned in heart of downtown Samurai City. But, I do not. Which is a little disconcerting to me now. I mean, the amount of litigation alone would probably warrant a course in some law school…but I guess when you leave the minutia to attorneys and sycophants and spokespeople one does not have to be concerned with dates and outcomes. It sounds terrible, but other than maybe having to pay for the demolition of some property, the outcome does not really effect me. And is that not the American way? What does not effect me, should not concern me…right? Is that not the direction our species is headed? I believe you should all be concerned that someone such as myself is questioning the humanity of humanity. I mean, my idea of helping the less fortunate involved elephant stampedes parades, and alleged forced substandard-wage labor in apple orchards. I am not saying that I was bad person (just horribly misunderstood), but friends, I am just saying consider whom is writing this and the implications.

Lately, I have found myself having Dante running through my head: “In that part of the book of my memory before which little can be read, there is a heading, which says: ‘Incipit vita nova: Here begins the new life’.” It seems that I am headed into a new life – I admit to being eager and horrified.

Oy gevalt..!

My Yiddish exclamations are not nearly close to showing how I am really feeling about the last few weeks. My duties at the Foundation have been overwhelming. I am not pleased with the situation at all. I mean, seriously, I have been doing more work than a six-jobbed Jamaican moonlighting as a ninja. Did you see that? I feel so tired that my metaphorical sense is not even wiggling, let alone tingling.

I was operating under the impression that the fellers at the top were supposed to content themselves with golf or hookers or yachting, the actually work to be done is supposed to be in the capable hands of underlings, henchmen, and overworked secretaries who actually have an idea about the day-to-day operations of a charitable foundation. This year, that is not the case. My poor fingers are sore from all of the document signing. I spent at least an hour sitting at my desk today listening to some jib jab about some children needing haircuts, backpacks, and other school supplies. I asked if the backpacks were to store the hair clippings. Apparently, this was so unfunny that my apology from my secretary cost us double in contributions. I have taken to calling this situation “Hairgate.”

Anyway, with all of that nonsense out of the way, I can get to my real point: apologies to my friends and readers here for being negligent in reading your blogs and writing my own. I was doing such a great job keeping to task with these things, but then I got caught up in paperwork…and taking my own hyper-educated ass back to college. I have been doing the college thing for a while now, my plan is to eventually go to Medical School. I believe I have mentioned this before. I will mention it again. It is important that you all understand what is coming to the world: Dr. Xavier A.S. Rothechilde, MD, PhD. Neuropsychiatrist and geneticist. Ruminate on that a bit. We have already starting planning the Thunderdome’s new laboratory…

So, friends, my apologies for being lax. However, you are in for more oddity from me. Since I have re-discovered my passwords for my old MySpace page, I plan to start migrating (re-blogging?) some of my older material. Perhaps that will give you a better idea of why you should let the idea of me with a medical degree sink in.

Well, that is all from me tonight. For once, I have an evening with nothing to do (actually, I am shirking responsibilities and planning for booze and blow jobs) and I am going to sit back and relax a bit. Good night, punkins.

“…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?

Forty Lent Suggestions

Ah, Fat Tuesday. A day that makes my Louisiana borne blood wish for bouncy jazz and bouncier tits. The grandiose parades, the crazy costumes, the people who normally would never be seen in by others in their skivvies dropping trow and raising shirt for plastic trinkets that will be lost before stumbling back to the hotel for two hours of sleep before round two begins.

However, that is just what I like about Mardi Gras. That and those wonderful Packzis, which I can enjoy now that I have found a baker who eschews lard. And which I can eat by the dozen thanks to my unique metabolism and general non-chubby state. Sorry, I am getting of track, thinking of boobs and Packzis can do that to you. What Mardi Gras actually is supposed to be is an advent of Lent, right? Please forgive me, I am a horrible reformed Catholic. All I really can say about Lent is that you are supposed to give up something you like for forty days. I am sure that is a rather glib and flippant interpretation, but that is just what it is sometimes, Jeeves.

I have been encountering friends, Catholic friends, whom have been wondering what to give up for Lent. None of them have liked my suggestions, some have even been a bit offended. That gave me an idea. I should write out some of my ideas here. Maybe even try to get forty of them.

Forty Things to Give Up for Lent:

1) Chocolate
2) Caffeine
3) Sugar…ALL sugar
4) Meat
5) Combing or brushing your hair
6) Swearing
7) Television
8) Sex
9) Brushing your teeth
10) Driving
11) Washing your hair
12) Work
13) Bathing
14) Showering
15) Bathing and Showering
16) Bacon
17) All red foods
18) Deodorant
19) Cosmetics
20) Nose picking
21) Justin Bieber (automatic entry to Heaven if you give him up forever)
22) Beer
23) Alcoholic beverages
24) Smoking (if you can make forty days, congrats! You are a non-smoker and have extended your life. Tell me how you did it so I can do likewise)
25) Masturbation (Or is that still considered sinful, and should not have been something to give up in the first place?)
26) Pickles
27) Standing in line (Simply tell people you have given it up for Lent and move to the head of the line. It will work out well. Trust me).
28) Facebook
29) Your mobile device
30) Being negative
31) Smiling (Your dourness would impress the most ardent of Stoics!)
32) Looking at breasts (If you chose this one, you have already blown it.)
33) Jealousy
34) Any weapons you own (What could possibly go wrong in those forty days?)
35) News media (Just the major news, go indie, baby!)
36) Vice
37) Shaving (This includes: face, legs, armpits, back, etc.)
38) Underwear
39) Your technology
40) Using paper

Enjoy the next forty days.

Too Many Pandas

This entry has nothing to do with pandas in any quantity. In fact they will not be mentioned again in any form. I was just too lazy to come up with creative title and slacked and hacked on it instead of coming up with one. To be honest, I was more concerned that my entry here be advertised via my social network connections than I was about a title. So, I should not be shocked if people stop reading or feel disappointed. But that is how life goes. We get disappointed. So, I broke the rule of basic writing and skimped on the title. Do not be angry, think of it as not having enough money for an appetizer at Applebee’s.

I missed a bunch of holidays. An election. And who even knows what else. Basically, I have spent the last few months in a spiritual/emotional Hell hole. That, and immersing myself in science studies in preparation for medical school. Yes, medical school. Your dear Xavier has decided to become a medical professional. I am thinking genetic research. At this time you need not know more. Balancing my new forage into academia and my daily Foundation duties has caused me to be horribly neglectful of this here blog. The stories of my having to deal with some legal issues regarding an alleged incident involving escaped alligators and maimed children have been greatly exaggerated. All of the families allegedly involved have been compensated, and no children were eaten, or even killed.

Sadly, however, a tragic end did come to a dear, beloved friend of mine. A friend whom was almost a lover. A friend that I will always have a fond memory of and will never forget how much that dear friend meant to me. A couple of months ago, Darkside Radio went off the air. If I am not mistaken, my broadcast was the last for the show. I will miss the Darkside. It was one Hell of a ride and if I could do it all over again, I would be tormenting the airwaves with gothic sounds, inappropriate humor.

What brought me roaring back out of slumber was a discussion that I had the other day at my local gunsmith’s:

Proprietor: “You’ll love this one, Mr. Rothechilde. I have never seen a weapon fit a person so well.”

Me: “Ray, you say that every time, you flatterer. I could just kiss you. But, I am just not a rifle sort of guy, you know that.”

Proprietor: “Hey, I had to show it to you.”

Dude: “Hey guy, you should reconsider that. Pretty soon, the Government is going to make them illegal and you won’t be able to have them. What’s so funny? They’re going to take all of our guns! First these, then the rest!”

Me: “Silly man. I help pay for government. Those laws are not for me, I can and will do as I please, and they will allow it.”

Dude: “What’re you sayin’? I pay taxes, asshole!”

Me: “I do not. Well, very little, anyway. But I do pay to get lawmakers elected. Just not in taxes. Congress works for you; the politicians work for me. It is the best government that money can buy.”

This would be vanity were I not behind a tombstone.

This would be vanity were I not behind a tombstone.

And that brings me out to say my piece on the gun debate. Apparently, I missed a lot since I was in cyber-exile. Apparently, the country is afraid that the stern hand of Uncle Sam is going to reach into homes and take the firearms out, leaving a population at the mercy of thugs and murderous brigands. The government is not going to take guns from you because the government has more bullets than you. They also have bigger guns. And bombs. And robots that can kill a bunch of you from a distance. The guns you should be saying that you have rights to are already denied to you. I hate to say such things. I really do. But it is the horrible truth. And the reason why I am bringing this up is because the population is engaged in a torrid and sexy debate over what is to become of our cherished Second Amendment right.

This happens all of the time. Some lunatic goes lunatic-y and rudely kills a bunch of people with guns. Afterwards, everyone wants to start “doing something.” That doing something usually involves a statement on firearms. That statement starts the riffraff going on and on and fighting and fighting and eventually something is done, and no one is really happy.

Secretary: “Wow. That was insulting. Who are you talking about this time?”

Me: “Me? Insulting? Never. I am just keeping it real.”

Secretary: “That’s just a way to say ‘Nobody likes me because I tell the truth. People can’t handle my honesty. No. You’re a prick, sometimes. A big one. Not even a hard on, just a dick. And a bitch.”

Me: “You object to ‘riffraff?’I am glad I held back my actual opinion. By ‘riffraff’ I mean that ninety-nine percent that those crazy liberals claim are being selfish and greedy and not paying their share. And that was a little harsh, I am a very nice person when people are doing what I want and need them to be doing.”

Secretary: “Right, right. So, obviously you are not talking about yourself…”

Me: “Sarcasm does not become you, my dear. Okay, I lied, it is actually pretty sexy. But not I am not talking about myself. Those laws do not pertain to me.”

What I mean here is that I can do things that most cannot. Like, I pay to go to dinners that cost thousands per plate to listen to what my candidate has to say? Do you, the general public, do the same? No, you do not. You sit at home and listen to what we tell the media to tell you and then you argue about it. You argue about that and other petty things so that we can have the politicians do what they are elected to do, keep us wealthy and safe. I can have as many guns as I want. As many kinds as I want. Look, you know that guy who is going to start selling passenger rides into space? He has a bunch of dough. A whole lot more than you. Now suppose you are a genius. A Wile E. Coyote level genius. And you build a rocket. And you go out into the middle of the desert and test your rocket in the name of science. Where do you think you will wind up? Yes. Guantanamo. Or some hole similar since that one is closing (cough, cough).  Probably without a trial because your ballistic launch could be construed as a terrorist act, and thereby have you indefinitely detained.

However, I have gone to many dinners and can call up a Washington friend and invite them over to a dinner in their honor that will also raise funds for their re-election. Of course they will be safe because I have plenty of guns, and armed security to protect me from that ninety-nine percent. At this dinner I can secure a permit to launch people into to space, and not be a terrorist. I wonder if that other cat took that approach…

All Goth things must come to an end. Embrace the Darkside.

All Goth things must come to an end. Embrace the Darkside.

Am I being unfair? Really? Think of all of the people in prison right now. How many thieves? How many thieves? Loan sharks? People who founded that legalized institution of Check into Cash, or whatever they call it. There is a standard of law here and it is a stratified as our economic statuses. The less you have the less you can do…and get away with.

But I have gotten off track. I was simply trying to illustrate how myself and those like myself can have guns, why we can have guns, and why we do not need them because we can hire people from beneath us to use guns to protect us. However, the fear is that they are going to take away the firearms from those of you who are not of my ilk. The truth is the government has a vested interest in the general populace be armed. If for some reason those wiley Chinese actually invade, or whatever Jong  Il happens to be in North Korea really grows balls and marches troops in, the US government is counting on the armed citizenry to be fodder before the encroachment. Having some illegal alien take your job is one thing, but some angry Easterner stepping up to you with a rifle saying you are about to be forced to speak another language? Naah…most United States citizens will not have such a thing. The will take to the streets and show the invader what a good ass kicking is all about.

See? That is a necessity. A nation that defends itself costs very little for the government; the extra money can be used to fortify the hiding places of the elite (ahem), build more drones to provide air support for the civvies fighting off the invaders, and shuffle the politicians into Canada or somewhere. Hell, it is very possible that a good month of holding the East at bay in Alaska and California could go by before any dude in a military uniform shows up and says: “Good job, citizen! We’ll take it from here.” Subsequently ending the war and being lauded as heroes. While you, the rest of the nation, waits for Congress to stop bickering over how much relief money should be sent to aid those lives ruined by the war.

So, that is why the government will never take your guns. Nations with an unarmed populace will never enjoy that level of security. However, the problem then arises that the Gubmint may need to lay the smack down on the citizenry. You may cry for health care and equal pay and a sandwich one too many goddamn times and then something will have to be done. But wait? They left you with guns. Damn. That complicates things. To fix that, there are always those drones. They have all sorts of cool ways of seeing you and finding you and killing you from a mile away. So your rifle really does not help much. But, there always has to be a “but”. A big butt. To fill that but you limit ammo. Yes! Limit the ammo. Those rebels have guns, but they sure as Hell will not have as many bullets. Or drones.

Leap Year Address, Two Thousand and Twelve

Greetings and Salutations!

Foundation stakeholders, Board members and Citizens of Samurai City, while I am simply elated to be here with you to celebrate the addition of the extra fourth of a day each year that we ignore save for every fourth year, I am saddened to begin this evening by asking that we all take a moment to remember Davy Jones. Mr. Jones was a good man, a funny man, a man who shared his name with the burial ground of sailors and pirates. He will be surely missed.

With that said, I now present the good news. As it is a Leap Year, it is important that we remember the fact that we are also being lazy; lazy on a scope that has encompassed all of humanity. Why lazy? The answer to that is simple: instead of adding another day to February on a permanent basis, a day that would last about six hours, we have opted to save those hours and bank them into one day extra every four years. In doing so, we have cheated ourselves, and our species.

True, true…that extra day in February would be a short one. More than likely, we would get very little accomplished as a whole. Which is why I would propose that the extra day be a six-hour holiday. Six full hours to do exactly nothing. Nothing! A person could sleep, fly kites, go on a drug/sex/booze bender. What the world needs exactly that: a day that is a holiday with no cultural purpose other than to slack off and not worry about a motherfucking thing.

Now, I realize that some people would want to work, and that some services cannot be avoided. To solve this: triple time. Maybe quadruple time. Yes! For six hours the people that HAVE to be on duty, would get an assload of cash to work on said day. You do not like the idea of cops rolling around in a Benz in their free time while you gad-about in your hooptie? Then behave on the extra day and we will not need the 5-0 up in our grilles for six hours. Besides, if you are somewhere being a complete lazy ass, you should not be getting into any mischief anyway.

So, dear people, as you go about your every fourth year shenanigans and celebrations, think about the benefit and joy that a six-hour jerk off could bring to you and humankind as a whole. Embrace the six hour additional day to February. Strike a blow for relaxation and against greedy day stealing Augustus.

Thank you, and Good Night!

Happy Leap Year!

Friday Night with Charlotte

Last week was quite a week. It started with scandal and ended with an ugly attempt to discredit The Foundation. The scandal was a bit of ugliness involving The Foundation’s war elephants. While it seems that the issue should have been over quickly and with a few payouts here and there, that was not to be. Fortunately, I had a fun night out with Charlotte the Friday before the treacherous attempt to ruin your beloved charitable organization.

I could go on and detail the incidents that led to the horrors of the weekend, but instead, I have decided to go the honest route and provide the transcript of a local news programs morning interview of yours truly.

Bert Berterson: “Good morning. I’m Bert Berterson appearing on this special edition of ‘Samurai City Saturday Morning’ with local mogul, Xavier Rothe…”

Me: “Mogul?! What the fuck did you call me? I am not a snowy lump on a ski slope! Nor am I some brandy sipping curmudgeon sitting by some fireplace in some cavernous, drafty, Victorian mansion. I am a humble orchard operator and general all around nice guy. I am really tired of your slander and libel. You really need to get over that camera incident with Manthony.”

B.B: “No, that is not the issue. True, there have been ‘incidents,” but they aren’t what this interview is about. We are here to discuss the elephant rampage that you and your associates with The Rothechilde Foundation are responsible for causing, avoiding, and admitting no responsibility.

Me: “Berty darling, that is exactly what I am talking about! Okay, so unfortunate things may have happened. People may or may not have been allegedly had the misfortune of standing where an elephant may have been walking. Whatever the case, there is no need to start throwing around faulty, unproven allegations that could result in a hefty lawsuit or potential burying in a shallow grave in Nevada or somewhere.”

B.B: “Did, did you just threaten to kill me and bury me in Nevada?”

Me: “I have done no such thing! I was merely stating things that could happen to a person. I have never gone to Nevada. The sand would destroy my wardrode, I believe. Speaking of which, I have been experimenting with adding color to my wardrobe…”

B.B: “Let’s not get off topic, Mr. Rothechilde, Xavier, may I call you Xavier?

Me: “I would not if I did not want to get ‘punished’ severely.”

B.B.  “Ahem. Before we begin, let’s refresh your memory. Ronald, roll the footage please.”

At this moment, a clip was played that showed a large group of people hanging about Downtown Samurai City. In the background, the Foundation Thunderdome stood majestically in the background. In the foreground, more people. Then the clip cut over to the ass-biscuit that I was currently being tormented by in this interview. Mr. Berterson was interviewing people who were “Occupying Samurai City.” Yes, the wave of civil unrest and general unhappiness of the populist poor had spread to Samurai City and the occupiers were occupying various areas of the city. This was exactly why we at the Foundation came up with the idea to have the war elephants. The occupiers had not come as far as the Thunderdome, but a group of counter-occupiers had begun to head in our direction. These counter occupiers were those who supported the one percent or something like that. Berterson interviewed a few of them as well. Approximately two minutes into the clip, a wave of people could be seen coming toward the camera. In the background, the image and sounds of a herd of elephants rapidly approached the news crew. Fleeing to a safe area (who knew there was a safe place from a herd of stampeding elephants?), the camera still recorded, Berty-baby’s panicked reporting in the background:

Bert: “This is Bert Berterson! A herd of elephants is now rampaging in downtown Samurai City! People are running everywhere as complete and total pandemonium has erupted! Oh my God! An elephant just tossed a police car into the side of the bank! This, this is terrible! Absolutely terrible! Hey! Someone grab that little girl! What the hell are you talking about? You do it! I’m Bert Berterson! I’m not getting stepped on by a freaking elephant! What the hell?! Is that elephant wearing a monocle and a tophat? My God the police have shot the elephant in the tophat! Tophat elephant is down! Holy shit! That elephant has that old lady by the neck! Wait, wait…the elephant has gently set her down. People we have a miracle, the elephant just set her…Shit! He kicked her! The elephant kicked her! Oh my…oh my…she’s, she’s barely moving. Paramedics are trying to help her. Okay, she’s giving the thumbs up. What? Headed where? Oh shit! Run! Ruuunnn!!!

And the clip ended there. To be honest, I was very upset by that footage. There was not one mention or shot of Sister Constance and the nun-wranglers coming in, taking down the rest of the pachyderms with tranquilizers and getting them safely back to the Thunderdome. Two elephants were slaughtered by the man on that tragic day. The monocle and top hat have been turned into monuments in the arboretum.

B.B: “Now, Mr. Rothechilde, clearly you could see what a tragic series of…hey! Are you texting?”

Me: “Yes, you were boring me with that biased video footage. There was no mention of the nuns and their success at bringing this unpleasantness to an end. Not to mention you subjected me to having to witness the brutal slaying of the vainglorious Lord Phant, a pachyderm of distinguished character and with obviously superior fashion sense. I was consulting our legal team to be sure that my comments will not be taken out of context and that the video delay is sufficient for Foundation security personnel to edit out any sensitive information before this hits the airwaves.”

B.B: “What?!”

Blue Boy?

Me: “You know, like they do on awards programs to filter out the potty mouths. Anyway, about fashion. As I believe we were discussing briefly earlier I have been experimenting with making changes to my wardrobe. I have been adding color. Unfortunately, I do not have a picture of me in the lavender and purple, or gold-brown-black, but I do have a picture of me in blue. Ronald, show the clip, please. As you can see, instead of my trademark black and white two-piece combination, I am sporting a stylish three-piece suit. I even have on a blue tie. Blue! And took a picture that I did not insist be made black and white or some sort of old-timey sepia look. Eventually, I will have some photos of me in the other color schemes soon, and I may come back to your program to discuss them again at that time. However, thank you for the interview, it has been a pleasant…”

B.B: “Excuse me, sir! I tell Ronald what to do around here, and we weren’t discussing fashion. We’re here to talk about your reckless unleashing of elephants on our fair city and what exactly you plan on doing about it! You have some things to answer for sir!”

Me: “I do no appreciate your tone, little man. Now see here, if it were not for those stupid one percenters parading about in their diamonds and smelly perfumes, the elephants would not have gotten upset and that misfortune would never have occurred. The elephants were simply a part of a parade that The Foundation was sponsoring in support of the “Occupy Samurai City if You Want, But Stay the Fuck Away from the Thunderdome” rally. As you can see the rally was a success, the Thunderdome is untouched and still stands as a glorious symbol of compassion and beauty. And we are not even going to sue the city over our beloved Lord Phant. Although it has caused Sister Constance a great deal of sorrow. We had to give her an extended vacation, pay raise, and purchase a new elephant, monocle, and top hat to alleviate her lust for revenge.”

B.B: “Are you saying that the life of that elephant is worth more than the hundreds of people that were injured in carnage laid out by your elephant horde? Are you seriously equating humanity with lower animals?!”

Me: “Well, hypothetically, my statement would appear to be putting elephants above the rest of humanity, but then who needs to be splitting hairs here? Besides, no people were killed, and only a few were maimed or otherwise seriously injured. Further, the occupation business was horribly bad for the already weakened economy. Those people should have been out working and those one percent counter-protesters should have been out subjugating masses or otherwise managing some means of economic oppression. The fact is, those protesters were in all likelihood unemployed; do we need to show the world on the national news that we are a nation of corpulent, unemployed people? No sir! No, I say! If our impoverished looked like those pot-bellied Ethiopians, then maybe we would have something to bitch about. However, we are a corpulent nation that sits on couches and and gets to watch seventy-seven different versions of ‘Law & Order.”

B.B: “Mr. Rothechilde! That is completely reprehensible! Do you even hear yourself? Listen, the Vice President of The Rothechilde Foundation has even come out and said that mistakes were made…”

Me: “Yes! Mistakes were made. Many mistakes! Chief among them was letting that bastard out of the dunge…er, basement during the protests. Had he remained sedated and properly confined, our efforts to fix this bit of unpleasantness could have come to an end much sooner, and I would already be enjoying the adulation of the citizenry of this fair city instead of sitting here and subjecting myself to this horrid interview from a man with the fashion sense of a Mogwai.”

B.B: “What are you talking about?!”

Me: “Your suit is terrible. I know a guy, let me help you, baby.”

B.B: “You’re obviously out of touch. With me and the citizens of Samurai City. They don’t love you, no one loves…”

You are very welcome

Me: “Oh my! I ought to shoot you right in your ugly face! You smug son of a…excuse, what is it? Yes, I understand. Excuse me, that gentleman was one of our attorneys, he suggested, and smartly I should add, that by ‘shoot you right in your ugly face’ that I actually meant “write you a sternly worded note of disapproval, perhaps an email cc’d to your station’s management. As for the love thing, surely you are mistaken For example, take a look at this lovely bit of art; Ronald, show the picture please.”

B.B: “Now see here! Ronald is not one of your lackeys…”

Me: “Obviously, the artist appreciates me and felt that I was worthy of being immortalized in one of her brilliant creations. And then there is Sister Constance. For a nun, she really does go out of her way to accommodate my eccentricities (I am ignoring your lackey comment, by the way. Manthony with surely discuss that with you.) Then, and not the least, there is my personal secretary, whom does me an innumerable amount of service in great variety, and makes sure that I can function on a daily basis. And Charlotte! Dear Charlotte! Why just last night, we went out to a local titty bar…”

B.B: “You can’t say that on public television and this has nothing to do with the elephant incident.”

Me: “I believe I did just say that, and this has everything to do with the elephants. There is nothing better to ease the pain of a deceased elephant friend and huge publicity hit like going out to see some boobs. And this was a great night. There was s lady there named Suzie Malone. She did some classy burlesque dance, magic tricks, and she swallowed a sword. Man, that gave me ideas, I tell you! She even danced around with fire. Fire! Strapped around her waist and in the shape of hand fans she danced with fire. I even had my picture taken with her. It is a topless picture. I am not topless, she is, or else I would have brought it to show. I am not opposed to showing the boobs on television; I just do not want to share them with you.”

B.B: “That is all well and good, sir. But what does any of this have to do with the damage you have brought and the poor people that are suffering because of your mistake?”

Me: “You just really want to beat a dead elephant. Man. Fine. While it is unfortunate that a few people may have received a bump or two because of a few rambunctious elephants, we are not a bank, mortgage company, or publicly traded corporation with stockholders to rape and pillage. The government will not bail us out like they did the people who the occupiers are bitching about (is that what they are bitching about? or is it Obamacare, Afghanistan, gay marriage, or Rick Santorum’s tranny porn stash?). No, as always in these trying time The Rothechilde Foundation will rebuild the damaged property. We have already purchased some of the more severely damaged property and found locations for business owners to rebuild and relocate. We have even offered to allow these business to use the Foundation’s contractors for repair and construction and infrastructure at prices that are much lower than the local business clowns. We are hiring many of the disgruntled occupiers for this Samurai City Reconstruction, and all of this will benefit the local economy. Lord Phant did not perish in vain.”

B.B: “It sounds like all you are doing is making a selfishly greedy cash grab and attempt to increase your personal stake and interest here!”

Me: “And is that not the American Way? Thank you, Samurai City and good day. This is Xavier A. S. Rothechilde, signing out.”

B.B: “Hey!”

And the screen goes black…

Note: Mr. Rothechilde has always reveled in, and proudly proclaimed his status as being a hack writer. If you disapprove of the ending, then you were not paying attention to the original disclaimer. No refunds or apologies should be expected and none will be made.

Sincerely,

Rothechilde Foundation and Trust Legal

Last Friday Night

Last week was a strange, hectic week. A good person passed from this world and last week was a time of preparing for and attending memorial services and a funeral. This week, last week is still showing its face, but all is settling a bit.

Last Friday night marked the end of the week and the folks around me involved finally got to “crash.” By crash I mean sit and rest and fall asleep. However, I could not last Friday. I had not planned on going out anywhere. I had planned to stay in for the evening, maybe watch wrestling (yes, I do follow the WWE a bit) or finally get back to trying to achieve one hundred percent completion of “L.A. Noire” after having a bit of a training session. While I was doing a bit of shadow boxing, I received a text on my iPhone that was really a message from Facebook telling me that a friend of mine was working at a local coffee shop and wanted people to visit, buy a coffee, and leave him a tip. Hmmm.., I thought, I could go out for a coffee after SmackDown, after I have completed my workout for the night.

So, SmackDown went off, and I got distracted for about an hour and by the time I decided to go and have a coffee, I discovered that I would not have time to change out of my workout pants and sleeveless, aeroline shirt. I was not dressed to go out for the evening. However, I was just going out for a coffee so I through on a hoodie and my running shoes and went out to the coffee house.

I went in and got a coffee and a brownie. Since the crowd inside the place was annoying this night, I decided to take the goodies back to my place, and enjoy them in peace. However, this coffee house is down the street from one of Manthony’s clubs and he was sitting outside of it and waved me over. I walked over and began to enjoy my treats as we stood outside and chatted.

He suggested that I come inside for a bit, they were having a Drag Show and I might enjoy it for a bit. I pointed out that I was looking rather sportish and not suitably attired for evening at the club. Yet, a friend of ours, who was outside smoking a clove since the state of Michigan stripped smoking from bars, suggested that I looked great and suggested that I come in for a drink. Since it was a good friend, and she looked absolutely delicious, I decided to go in and have one drink with her and take in a bit of the show.

I am happy that I went into the club! I was immediately greeted with the sound of a familiar voice: the emcee for this Drag Show was my favorite Drag Queen: Alexa. I had not seen her in about seven years. I ordered a Woodchuck Ale (I was not dressed for public absinthe consumption), and watched Alexa from a table near the entrance where Manthony was letting people in, or having them thrown out.

After watching the show for a few, I decided that I should venture homeward (is it weird that being around Drag Queens made me feel under dressed?), and I went outside to say my “see you laters” to Manthony, who was now sitting outside on the steps of the bar with a skinny blonde. Manthony was waiting for a limousine to arrive that was transporting a bachelor or bachelorette party or something of that nature. The skinny blonde was smoking a Marlboro Light.

Skinny Blonde was pretty tipsy and flirtatious. She was trying to remember Manthony’s name (he had already told her the name several times), and was wondering why he said that his name contained body parts. She was rather elated when he said there was a “toe” and a “knee” in his name, but the elation fell because neither of the names were of “naughty body parts.” That is when I told her that his last name was “Boobpenis.”

She then noticed that I was there and asked me what my name was:

Manthony: I told you that his name was Xavier.

Me: My name is Manthony.

Skinny Blonde: Another Boobpenis?! How many of you are there in this town?!

Me: No, my name is Xavier. I was just pulling on your leg.

Skinny Blonde: Be nice to me, I’m pretty drunk and not from around here. I’m here with her over there, she’s my friend.

SB was not from Samurai City and had come here to hang out with a girlfriend of hers. Apparently, she is in the midst of as divorce, and was not opposed to being friendly and flirtatious. Amusing as she was, I was on my way back to my place and said so to Manthony and SB.

Manthony: See you later. Here’s my limo, I need to let people in.

Me: See you later.

SB: Xavier, you should come in and dance with me.

Me: I would love to, but I have to leave. Besides, I am really not dressed for the bar.

SB: No, you don’t have to leave. You just don’t like me because I’m a skinny white girl with no ass. You look fine, I like the sport-look.

Me: You have been sitting the whole time, I have no idea of your ass or lack thereof. Actually, I find you rather interesting and would dance if I did not have to be on my way. The next time you are out, have Manthony ring me up and I shall come out and give you a dance.

SB: I can give you my cell phone number, you should call me. Just don’t call when my boyfriend is home!

Me: How in the Hell am I supposed to know that?

With that, Skinny Blonde gave me her digits and I walked her back inside the club to where her friend was standing. I advised her friend that SB probably did not need anymore drinks, and that it was nice to meet the two of them. Then I left and headed on my way back to my Samurai City digs.

And so ended another week in Samurai City.

 

Soon, Florida. Soon…

The US Government has done it. They have finally declared war on the elderly. Really, it is about time. Our country has waged wars on drugs, poverty, terrorism, and who knows what else. Usually, when the US declares war on a “thing” the nation does not do well. Except for killing people, we do that with great skill. However, the war on drugs brought more drugs. The war on terrorism gave us Homeland Security. The war on poverty successfully brought more people to poverty. At least more voting people to poverty.

According to President Obama, the US may not be able to guarantee many Social Security checks after August third. The majority of articles I have read seem to placing the blame for this squarely on the shoulders of the Barak-meister General. It is a good thing that the US government consists only of one branch. If we had a Legislative Branch, and called it something like, hmmm…how about Congress?, that body could come up with some ideas for laws and then Mr. President could either approve the law or send it back to have it reconsidered. We could call this a Balance of Power or a Share-y Law Thingy! What? You mean that the gubbmint already works like that here? My bad, I thought this whole budget thing was the responsibility of one person.

However, that is of no consequence. Whether this is the President’s, Congress’, or Ali Sheedy’s fault, the end result is the same: War has finally been declared on the the elderly of the United States. This should come of no surprise. After Florida got such a bad rap from the elderly and the confused mental states when voting back during Bush v. Gore, the politcos have set their sites on the elderly. Not all of them, only the ones who are in need of Social Security. Independently wealth old folks and politicians are okay: the former factory workers, soldiers, and people who built this country are the ones who are the problem.

Not only does this segment eat up a lot of dough in government benefits, but they drive horribly, tell the same stories repeatedly, and address everyone as “young” something. Florida was the last straw. After retiring and moving to Florida, a state evolved that has next to no native residents (save the naked hotties in the South), and the current residents being confused, elderly voters. Indeed, the last steps leading to war was Florida. The Republicans wanted those old timers out because they had become election stealing, brandy-snifter-by-the-fire, carpet bagging, thieves, and the Democrats had become the put out victims of the right wing conspiracy, the whiny crybaby now martyred on the cross of political injustice. The Greatest Generation Must Go!

Wild-ish Cracker Cow

After the ascension of The Obam-a-nator, it was time to make the move. Instead of cutting funds on a war that should have started to be over when Osama was whacked, cap spending and cut those social programs to the elderly. If done when Barak is President, the last thing the elderly will do before they die off is vote a Republican in to replace to Mr. O because their suffering is his fault. He cut the programs. The Democrats can hold on if they can convince the suffering oldies that money would be available if the Republicans were insisting on sending their grandkids to fight over in that hot desert. With who is to blame thoroughly confused, the elderly will all finally be done in by the sudden shock and awe of disregard from the once faithful and protective government. The population of Florida will drop by seventy percent and there will be plenty of room for younger people to move, find jobs, and do things that do not involve shuffleboard or pill schedules. The voting irregularities of Florida will be replaced by the apathetic non-voting influx of misguided thirty somethings who spend too much time living in parents’ basements to realize that all of Florida is not beach and that by moving to central Florida, it does not mean that you will see a lot of semi-naked chicas (you will see a lot of wild-like cows and cowmen called “crackers.”

Be it Republican-led treachery or Democrat-fed do-nothing-ness, it works for me. At least it did work for me. All will be working fine as soon as the Foundation’s legal team has settled a small issue between the County and a ourselves. The problem all started when I was pulled over last week because I braked a little suddenly to avoid killing a squirrel. Apparently, the cop riding the ass of my Alpha Romeo hearse was not of a mind to save a squirrel from being squished by a hearse and he pulled me over.

People react funny to hearses, and even funnier to one that has been crafted out of an Alpha Romeo. When the officer came to the window of my vehicle, he asked for my information and walked back to his car. At that time, I noticed a little light on the dashboard. The light was indicating that there was a problem with the air circulation system in the coffin (read on, this will make sense). Swearing to myself, I got out of the car, walked around to the back and open the rear door. Of course, this made the officer nervous, ever more nervous when he noticed the coffin in the back. He was out of his car before I could reconnect the air flow tube that must have come disconnected during the squirrel evasion. I would need to address the faulty connections to my technical people.

Officer: Stop! Let me see your hands and step away from the vehicle.

Me: Here are my hands, but I need to reconnect this tube or else Ms. Gargula may suffocate.

Officer: What?!

Me: There! All connected. What can I do for you officer? My apologies if my coffin check made you anxious, but I wanted to make sure that my resident was comfortable and safe.

Officer: You funeral types are so weird. Do you know why I stopped you?

Me: I assume that my sudden braking almost caused you to sodomize my hearse with your cruiser, and you were able to stop suddenly because you are a bottom and I am a top and the wreck would not make sense.

Officer: Well, yes. I mean, no! I mean, you did brake suddenly. Have you had anything to drink this afternoon?

Me: Not yet. But I will be having some absinthe soon.

The conversation was then interrupted by a knock from inside the coffin in the hearse. In my haste to attend to the policeman, I did not attach the air connection properly and Ms. G. was signalling that she needed to breathe. I needed to securely attach that tube or else Ms. Gargula would be meeting her maker sooner than she expected.

Officer: Was that a knock?! Is there someone alive in there?

Me: Not for long if you do not let me re-attach that tube. By now, the indicator light informing Ms. Gargula that her oxygen is being depleted and will be exhausted in one hour has come on. Fortunately, the power systems are fine, at least she has light and some entertainment.

Officer: You open that and let her out of there! You can’t keep live people in coffins.

Me: There is only one person in the coffin and this is completely legal, consensual, and really none of your business. Now, if you would let me re-attach…

Officer: You stay right there. You say this is consensual?

Me: I have “Power of Inter-y” for Ms. Gargula.

Officer: You mean “Power of Attorney, correct? And what does that have to do with having a live human being trapped in a coffin?!

Me: No, I meant “Power of Inter-y.” I have a binding legal document stating that she is to be buried in that very coffin immediately after death. I have a clever team of lawyers. Man, this is the new Gold Rush. We can thank Washington for this situation, their holding Social Security ransom has unleashed a new commercial enterprise. That is exactly what is the destiny of this, poor thing: she is terrified and took solace in premature burial. That is the case with the elderly these days with the panic generated by the recent Social Security woes and all. The old folks are freaking out about not having any money, health care, or a place to live!

So, they have come to the Foundation and requested that they be able to live in a coffin as a part of our “Coffins and Burials for Homes Program.” It is a great deal, actually. The coffins are fully tricked out with telephones, cable television, feeding ports, and IV drips for their meds. The more technologically savvy have opted for WiFi so they can communicate with family over the Internet. As for that unpleasant bathroom issue, well a system of catheters and various “-ostomies” have under management. In exhange, they deed their properties and possessions over to The Foundation. Upon the death of the client/resident, we embalm, arrange the funeral, and provide the preferred means of internment.

Officer: This is outrageous! I have never heard of such a thing. Either you let that woman out of there, or I’ll do it myself under the pretense of investigating a crime in progress.

Me: I am sorry, but opening that coffin would be a violation of the residents contractual rights. I cannot violate that Client Privilege without just cause. What we need to do now, officer, is reconnect this air connection…

Officer: Step away from the vehicle.

Me: Okay, but I must inform you that I object to this illegal search.

Officer: You just keep quiet and stand there where I can see you, don’t make me handcuff you.

Saying that, the Officer began searching for a means to open the coffin. He tried the lid, but Ms. Gargula had locked it shut, fearing that someone would come and try to steal the items from her Precious Moments collection that she wanted to have buried with her.

Me: Please do not pull on those tubes, some of them are intravenous and you may cause the resident serious pain.

Officer: I told you to shut up! This is your last warning.

Then he noticed a series of buttons on the side. The drawings next to the button gave him an idea of what the buttons were for; there was one for food, one for waste retrieval, etc. He decided that since the red button isolated from all of the others must be the mechanism to open the coffin.

Me: Please, do not push that red button!

The officer sneered at me and pushed the button. He fell away from the car as he heard a pump start, one loud scream from the coffin, and a couple of knocks. He immediately noticed the sudden silence, except for the nearly perceptible humming of pumps and fluid. He looked at me and was about to draw his weapon, and noticed that I had not moved from my spot. Rather I looked from the coffin, to him, and to from him to the coffin again.

Me: Now, you have done it. You started the auto-embalming sequence.

Officer: Well, shut it down! We can save her?!

Me: No, not now. Ms. Gargula was deathly afraid of zombies. Moreso afraid of becoming a zombie. She requested that we install Anti-Zombie precautions in her coffin. As soon as that button was tripped, metal spikes were driven through the base of her skull and her pre-frontal cortex. That scream was more than likely caused by the entrance of orifice plugs immediately before the spiking. If it matters to you, I doubt she suffered…much.

Hearing that was enough for the copper and he decided to call the matter in and have my vehicle impounded, which my attorneys were able to prevent as the Habeas Corpus of the corpse was not at the leisure of the County…or some shit my lawyers were saying. So, while I was able to leave with my car, and my former resident, our rental program has been put on hiatus pending a review of the legality or ethics of the issue. The Foundation lawyers believe that we shall be successful in our case: the government has already declared war on the elderly, at least we are helping them find peace until the end…

A Few Things

First Things First

My neighbor died a few days ago. I happened to be out checking the progress of the new vineyard and the clearing away of the old, dead trees when I noticed across the way that there were a bunch of police cars at my neighbor’s house. I left the vineyard and walked across the divide and opened the fence that led from my property to my neighbor’s.

I asked one of the women standing out in front of the house what was going on and one of the women, who turned out to be his sister, said that he had died. They did not know how. She had come by the house to check on him and he was sitting at his desk, with a pen in his hand like he was writing. He was slumped over, dead.

"...like a drop of rain, falling to the ocean..."

I offered my condolences and went back through the fence to my vineyard. The grapes are looking great, and the laborers that are cutting the dead, fallen trees into firewood are moving way to slow. I took out my sidearm and fired off a shot that barely grazed the ax handle held by one of the laborers. I commented that had he been working faster, then I would not have been able to pull off such a shot. The laborers began to work a bit faster then. Ah, Capitalism…

He has been gone for a few days now and when I look across the hills and peeks of the apple trees I can see the faint yellow glow that emits from the outdoor lights that are on twenty-four hours a day. The lights used to be white. Now, they are yellow, they add an eerie glow to the vineyards only yards away.

Ellen Garrett, Rest in Peace

I went to visit her at the hospice. She died three days later. I will miss her.

Hooray for Me!

A couple of days ago, I posted a blog. While I was writing this blog, I happened to notice a button on the tool bar for this blog window and it showed a tool tip that said “kitchen sink” or something like that. I clicked the link and slap my dick and call me Seymore Butts, I noticed that I had more text options. I could change the color of the text. I discovered how to underline! Now, some of you WordPress veterans may have known how to do this already, but I was driving myself to OCD Hell because I could not do much for blog formatting.

I even discovered how to make a quote show up inside the blog and be separated from the rest of the text like I have been seeing in other blogs. Now, granted this is not a quote, but I am all excited about the prospect of being able to do these things and want to show off my new skills.

So, now I believe that this site will be even more fun for me and I may even be enticed to write more than once or twice a week. Which I could definitely do, if I could only manage to tear myself away from my Playstation 3. I have become addicted to “Infamous” and still have to check out “L.A. Noire.” Ah, priorities.

Wednesday Night at the Bar

That video has nothing to do with this topic. Almost nothing.  I just like the song, the video, and I wish that my trips to my shrink went more like this. Actually, I just loved this movie. I hear this guy has a new one in the works, I am eager to see it. I wanted to post the video for the opening of this film, but I was unable to find it on YouTube.

However, this has nothing to do with the trip to the bar. Except for the video that I wanted to show that I did not get to show. You see the video has a few really chubby women and a score of monkey men. My night at the bar was greeted by chubby women and strange monkey men. And it is along those lines that I go on with this post.

The night began innocently enough, the plan was to meet a couple of friends at a local bar and have a drink or two and then turn in for an early evening. When I got out into Old Samurai City, most of the folks that I was supposed to meet were gone, and I ran into Baron Outenburt and Ethermagus standing out in front of the coffee shop near the bar. Since the Thunderdome is undergoing some extensive renovations, I had not seen Ethermagus in some time; as for the Baron, he pops up from time-to-time as a friend of mine on the Playstation Network, but I had not had the pleasure of conversation with either gentleman in some time. So, we greeted and proceeded to catch up as friends sometimes do when they have not seen each other in a bit.

Suddenly, our reverie was broken by this dirty-ish fellow who had been standing down on the corner with another fellow that was moving about with the aid of a cane. I had seen the guys down on the corner when I walked up and the martial artist in me was compelled to keep an eye on them. Periodically, they would look down at us and then talk to each other, and then look down at us again. I was wondering if the two were conspiring against us and was now cursing the fact that I decided to obey the Michigan Concealed Weapons Regulations and left my firearms in the car since they are not allowed in bars. Well, this guy calls me: “cousin” (which I am not sure if that was because he had been watching “Lilo & Stitch” and was inspired by the culture of indigenous Hawaiians or because we are both ethnic minorities and the Baron and Ethermagus are clearly not), and asks me for a cigarette. With an uncharacteristic feeling of giving, I gave the dude a smoke and then he asked for my cigarette to light his with. I am not sure why, but I gave him my cigarette, he put his HAND ON THE FILTER, and he gave his cigarette what we smokers like to call a “monkey fuck.”

Be a Proud Bitch!

Ew. He touched my cigarette and I had no idea of knowing where his hands had been. Judging from his overall smell, I am happy to still be unaware. Before anyone starts getting up in my ass about any implication that I am referring to a person who is “houseless,” let me tell you that this was a drunk, perfectly capable, non-houseless mooch of a man who was trying to find a clever way to get something from me other than a cigarette. As I tossed my cigarette to the ground and got out the bottle of sanitizer that I keep in my pocket to scrub my hands in a mad fit of germ avoidance, this guy begins to tell us how his friend on the corner got robbed of three hundred dollars. Apparently, some chick took his money. My immediate thought was that this was a drug deal gone bad, and he was feeling the buyer’s remorse one gets when one buys and gets nothing in the exchange.

After a time, the man with the cane approaches me and asks me if I would not only call a cab for him, but would I pay for the cab to take him to Bishop Airport. You see, he was from Atlanta, Georgia and did not even know where he was. He needed to at least get to Bishop so that he could get on his flight home. Really? First of all, Bishop International is in Flint, Michigan. Flint is about a thirty minute drive from Samurai City. That would cost one Hell of a bit of money and there was no way in Hell that I was going to cough that up to some drunken idiot that gave some bitch three hundred dollars for some drugs. Some bitch that he did not know. How do I know that this is what went down? Before he came over to ask for cab fare, he was telling the smoke-mooch that he thought three hundred dollars was too much to pay for an ounce of pot. At least he is right on that point. Unless he is getting the bomb-diggity chronic. Which he was not getting from some chick on the street in Old Samurai City.

After this encounter, Ethermagus, the Baron and I parted ways and I walked down the street to the local Eighties Bar where I was told that some folks may have gone. I ordered a Captain and Coke, looked around and saw no one, and then sat down to enjoy my drink. While drinking and telling Sister Constance that I was going to send her a text message with a picture of my cock attached (which I did, only I sent a picture of a rooster. Get it? Cock? Rooster? Oh, never mind), a guy walked over to me:

Guy: “Hey, what’s up? So, I see you are sitting here on your Facebook or something and I do not mean to interrupt. My name is Rob.”

“Well, Rob, get your fucking nosy-ass eyes off of my iPhone and two, I am not in Facebook, not that it matters any to you, you fucknut” Is what I should have said, but he did catch me off guard, so instead:

Me: “Greetings and Salutations, I am Xavier A.S. Rothechilde.”

Rob: “So, I saw you sitting here alone, and just thought I would come over and say hi. I was sitting over by the DeeJay.”

Me: “And now you are sitting next to another one. Only I am an Internet DeeJay, and you probably never have listened to my show. That is too bad for you.”

Rob: “What?”

Me: “Nothing, Rob. Just small talk for small people. What brings you over this fine night?”

Rob: “Well, I thought you may need company ’cause you’re sitting here by yourself and I came to say hello and see if you wanted company.”

Me: “No, but thank you. I really hate to be around too many people that I do not know and I think that you are coming on to me. You may try to Roofie me or slip me some kind of Mickey so that you can ass-rape me behind the bar. I already feel naked because I am unarmed; you are giving me the itchy trigger finger that may have me calling my attorney so that I can avail myself of legal loopholes to deal with the likes of you.”

Rob then walked back to his spot by the DeeJay, the non-Internet one, and ignored me for the duration of my stay at the bar. Now, it may seem that I was a bit hard on poor Rob, but I resented the idea that he felt that I had to be lonely and needing company because I was sitting alone in a bar! Yeesh! I can do whatever the fuck I want, and part of that fucking want is to go out, watch people, and be a hermit in public if I choose to do so. I would have been more than happy to have Rob join me for a drink and conversation, I do enjoy meeting people every once and a while, but his arrogance in assuming that I needed company? For all he knew, my “Facebook” fun could have been me asking where the Hell my crew was or me watching porn while I enjoyed my tasty beverage.

Apparently, we are turning into a culture where it is not okay to be by yourself in public.

“It’s the End of the World as we know it, and I feel fine…”

Just when I had thought that it would be safe to venture out and about, I learned that the Rapture scheduled for yesterday never came to pass. At least that is how it seems to be going down at this time. Really? All of the preparations that I made for today have been thrown to the wind and completely discarded. Thank you Harlod Camping for ruining what would be my first opportunity to go hunting.

However, I was elated to learn that Judgement Day was at hand, according to Mr. Camping, and come Sunday morning when all of the good Christians were taken wherever they were going to be taken, there would be a host of left-behind Christian zombies to plink away at while otherwise enjoying an oddly quite day. Not being a Christian has its advantages; apparently we “nons” are ignored in the grand reckoning to come. That is, unless we are considered heretics or non-believers and therefore deserving of punishment with the left-behinders…which I certainly doubt.

So, it was this morning that I awoke to discover that everything apparently was the same as it was when I went to bed last night, and the Rapture was not late, it seemingly did not come to pass. At least that is what Christians who were down with that idea may be thinking now. I offer a different take on the subject, suppose the Rapture did come, and all of the Christians that are wandering about now are ones that were left behind. What if there is not one single Christian who is deserving of what was allegedly supposed to come last Saturday a couple of hours after lunch? What if all of the Christians walking, driving-running-biking, about are actually not fit for hanging with the J-man?

That is not something for me to say. I am a bit of a narcissist, but I am far too intelligent to assume that I could begin to know the mind of something that I would call “god.” Particularly if that god is supposed to one that is transcendent. That which is situation above and separate, can never be truly understood by that which is below. Fortunately, my view on diety does not include the requirement or dogmatic assumption that my gods are transcendent; diety walks through and with me always, it is a part of my experience and I am not one to wait around for my religion to experience me…

And the world still turns. The sun rose, the sun set. The moon glows above and the wind howls about as a storm brews on the horizon. Instead of Christian-zombie skeet shooting, I have to be content with another walk to the range. It seems that my target practice will still be inanimate bulleyes and statues of hated enemies stored and silent in the range in the back-end of the orchards. The walk ought to me a nice one: the new grape arbors look wonderful against the white blossoms that are now raining about thanks to the high wind. Man. It would have been a great night to hunt zombies.

Foundation Anger Management Fiesta

I have been writing this for some time, I have just been playing around with ways to place this entry into a blog with minimal editing in the transfer from Microsoft Word to MySpace to WordPress. My “Lego Star Wars III: The Clone Wars” (Playstation 3) addiction has not been helping either.

Truthfully, that above is not quite true. The truth is that I chose to delight you with a blast from the past. This post was indeed written using Microsoft Word. Further it has been transferred from MySpace to this WordPress blog. However, I have not really put too much time into this “edition,” other than add this foreword after the original introduction. I felt this was a good reprint to use for an introduction to The Rothechilde Foundation.

Starting this voyage somewhere near the middle of the trip, I will bounce back to the beginning after a time. The end of the story is an uneventful and quick ending that suddenly comes and goes after a bunch of writing and yammering. I just wanted to let you have a taste of my ADHD so that you feel like you are a part of my cognitive experience. Now, folks, somewhere in the middle…

Reporter: “Well, honky, cracker, white trash, etc. Those are funny. You know, when George Jefferson or Redd Foxx say any of those words, they are funny. Remember Richard Pryor? That ‘n’ word that you used is not funny; it represents years of subjugation and racist institution!”

Me: “Well, that is a bit redundant, are you of Manthony’s people? I shall speak with him about sending morons to interview me…”

Manthony: What is the fuck, my friend? Why are you tripping? He does not work for me!”

(Manthony:: “Look! I kno yo’ bitch ass gon’ read dis shit; yo’ OCD ass has to. Any fuckin’ way, don’ be messin’ wit mah words no moe! I talk like I wants to be talkin’. A nigga can’t deal wit it? He can talk to ma girlfriend ‘oops!’ I just got ma ass capped by Manthony! Believe dat shit! An’ ho’ I just said ‘nigga,’ wha’ tha’ fuck yo’ about-to-be-beat-down-interview ass gots to say about dat?”)

Very well…

Manthony: “Wha’ tha fuck, dawg? You kno’ he ain’t one o’ mah peeps!”

Me: “I know that, but I was making a pun based on your Department. Yes, I know you know that, also. However, this man is being a bit redundant, and unnecessarily so; racism is an institution by definition. He is suggesting some sort of uber-racism: an institutional institution founded in bigotry. Not to mention that he is being just plain stupid, why should someone be allowed to use some of those words and not the other? Oh yeah, because of slavery. Maybe it was that Jim Crow thing. Whatever. You know, I cannot go and punch a fellow everyday because he really kicked my ass for a bit. If something is over, then it is over. Stop punishing whitey! How about you, hypocrite? I am willing to bet that you thought Don Rickles was hilarious before Disney turned him into a talking potato”

Interviewer: “You are a horrible, horrible man.”

Me: “Thank you, my balls would look great in your mouth.”

And that is how I ended the conversation. This all started with a visit to a program that the Foundation is sponsoring at a local community center. The lovely people who secured the grant from us asked that we come to visit on this day in particular. Why? The local television station was going to do a story and they felt it would be good to have us there to speak on behalf of the Foundation.

My first thought was to send our illustrious Vice-President. I hate the idea of being on television. I hate the idea of being surrounded by children and on television even more. Most of all, I hate both of those things when they also include having some fake attitude from some self aggrandizing money grubber, eager to pat themselves on the back on the city stage.

As I thought of myriad ways to avoid this deal, Charlotte reminded me that Smeagol has a face that is not even suitable for radio. She was painfully correct; he cannot be put on television, particularly not as a representative our lovely Foundation. However, we do have Manthony. He likes television and the idea of being on it. I figured, I would go and do the dreaded spot with Manthony accompanying me. That way, I could avoid trying to connive away my presidential duty.

Most importantly, we have Charlotte. If you tell her that you want the whole deal to last no more than five minutes, then she will have you to your car in three of them flat. Everyone knows that. However, we need to be reminded of that from time-to-time:

Me: “Manthony, my secretary just informed me that one of our sponsored programs is being visited by a local television station. They would like a representative of the Foundation present. As President, I have to go as the Executive Secretary reminded me that our Veep does not have suitable appearance for television.”

Manthony: “Oh HELL yeah, le’s do dis shit up!”

(Manthony if you are reading this again, I just want you to know that your insistence that I write in your “dialect” is driving my spellchecker crazy).

Madame Secretary: “Whoa, that is not an option! The two of you are not going to be left to your own devices and allowed to go to that interview alone. What the fuck are you thinking? Smeagol is too ugly, besides should treat him…”appropriately,” we could have image issues later since the general public does not appreciate the extreme measures that have to be taken to contain him.”

Me: “Well, thank you for volunteering to chaperone…”

Madame Secretary: “That’s pretty funny. I am not dealing with that train wreck on my own. Charlotte has agreed to come also.”

There, it was decided and settled, we would all go to this interview.

We arrived about two minutes before the camera crew and the reporter. However, we decided to go on a tour of their facility and were not at the interview designation until after set up. When we made our way to the interview site, we were greeted by the site supervisor, a reporter, and a child. About forty yards away from us, a producer sat in the back of one of the station’s vans; he was going to be broadcasting this event I assumed due to the long antenna with the satellite dish jutting from the top of the vehicle.

The reporter was none other than Bert Berterson. I really hate this fellow; he seems to have some latent hatred of the Foundation and seeks at all times to “expose” what he considers inappropriate conduct perpetrated by our esteemed Board of Directors. His camera man was a bearded fellow who looked as if he had just spent two days sleeping in the very clothes he wore to this interview. His tee shirt, boldly emblazoned with the words: “White Trash Superstar” on the front, and “Cracker and His Technicolor Jean Jacket” on the back, was covered with stains from coffee and who knows what that color comes from?

The SS advised us that this child was one they thought would be a good representative of the children in the program and had been selected to join the interview. I recognized this child as the son of the SS herself. I mentioned this quietly to Manthony. I did not mention it quietly enough, because Charlotte happened to overhear it.

Charlotte: “What?! Sorry, this child is unacceptable! He is not even a participant in this damn program. Go find one who is, or I will do it for you. You have until I count to five to begin walking, lady.”

SS: “This is highly irregular. You have no authority to make demands of my program!”

Reporter: “This ought to be interesting; roll camera. Hello, I am Bert Berterson from TFTV Channel 11. I am on site at the Fun Summer Program site…”

Charlotte: “…two…”

Madame Secretary: “Actually, she does. If our Board decides that you are out of compliance with the grant specifications, it will be withdrawn; you will have to return any remaining funds. From there, a hearing will determine just how long you have been out of compliance and decide whether you have to repay the Foundation ANY funds that you have received.”

Charlotte: “You should have read the fine print, bitch. Four…”

Manthony: “Turn that camera, off…”

Charlotte: “…five. I’m going to get another child for this interview.”

Manthony: “Get dat boy over there; tha’s mah nigga’s Jo-Jo’s boy. He’ll do jus’ fine.”

Reporter: “Did you just call that boy the ‘n-word?'”

Me: “No, he called that boy’s father one of his ‘nigga’s. I believe they are familiar.”

Charlotte: “Hey, little man, come over here. We’d like you to appear on TV with us.”

Little Boy: “Hey, there unca Manny!”

Manthony: “W’sup, foo? Hey, I said turn dat shit off, man.”

SS: “Now, wait just a minute!”

Madame Secretary: “One more word out of you and you owe us money. Shut up!”

Reporter: “That large fellow should not be using those horrible words; not only is he perpetuating stereotypes, he is being a racist. Look at him! He is as white as they come and he is calling little black boys the ‘n-word!'”

Me: “Well, for someone so sanctimonious and politically correct, it would seem that you would not allow your camera man to wear that shirt of his out and about…”

And this is where we started. As I said earlier, this is where I grew tired of this interview and opted to leave. Mr. Berterson disagreed and chose to follow me to our Foundation limousine. His cameraman, still taping, followed him. Behind him followed the rest of the Foundation Board. The SS stayed back, wondering if she were now out of a job and/or program most likely.

Manthony: “I said turn dat shit off! I meant turn dat shit off. Now, dat I am turnin’ dat shit off!”

Manthony seized the camera, yanking it from the now-frightened man’s hands; pulling the man off of his feet and to the ground in the process. Then, he took a few steps back. You know, Manthony is a rather large fellow. Seeing him, you would assume that he is pretty strong. You would only be half correct; he is freakishly strong; freakishly strong and as graceful as a Peterbilt in toe shoes. He began to spin in a circle, like one of those Olympic hammer tossing guys. After he had built up enough speed, he released the camera. The video soul-stealing device sailed through the air in a nice, high arc. Near the end of the arc, it collided with the satellite dish on the top of the station’s van, crashed to the ground and skidded about ten yards to a stop on the other side of the parking lot.

The Secretary immediately got on her cell. We all knew that she was about to contact the Channel 11 in order to find a quick and news-free solution to this issue. The reporter and his camera man ran to the station van, leaving the remnants of their equipment behind and sped off. We got into our car and headed back to the Foundation:

Madame Secretary: “I was able to negotiate with TFTV (they should change their name to TSTV…heh heh, get it?), they will forget this happened if we replace the camera, satellite dish and antenna. Manthony, you will also have to attend the Foundation’s Anger Management Fiesta.”

Charlotte: “Well, that is a new one. Since he usually leads FAMF, does that mean I get to lead it since he has to attend?”

Manthony: “Hell no! You can’t be left wit Smeag by yo’ self wit dem tazers an’ shit…”

Me: “Sorry Manthony, but she is correct. You cannot teach the class. I would, but I am always in the class myself. Besides, Charlotte is great at this sort of thing. If I were leading, we would all be sitting around trying to figure out ways to subtly make a person’s life miserable. At least with Charlotte, you get my tactics and her need for more ‘pro-active’ approach.”

More About Me Via A Survey from Khaos

I am a narcissist. I am a narcissist and I love to share my take on the world with anyone who cares to listen (and with those who really do not give a flying fuck). I am also a narcissist who likes to write… a lot. When trying to come up with ways to introduce my personality to you, dear reader, I felt it would be good to offer my opinions on a variety of things and see how it turned out. With that stated, allow me to tell you a tale…

Long ago, there was a Pirate Scourge of the Great Lakes. This Pirate created a MySpace profile at the suggestion of a friend, used it for about a week and abandoned the profile for a year or so. Later, this same friend got the Pirate and his better half to involve themselves in the MySpace thing. The better half created a profile, the Pirate returned to his old page (if you wish to read more back story, continue on, if not, scroll down a bit). Still later, for the sake of privacy and literary license, the Pirate’s doppelganger returned to the Pirate’s life, arriving like an absinthe freight train headed down the Pirate’s throat. This was the announcement of Xavier to the world and it was good.

Being the person that I am, it can be a bit difficult for me to make friends. I can be a bit sarcastic and supercilious. Those who have seen beyond the veil (and possess brains) grew to understand and appreciate my brilliance and dared to become a friend of yours truly. One such person was a wonderfully fiendish woman with the name of GKhaos. While searching for friends, I decided to search for anyone who may have an interest in Harley Quinn (that lovely sidekick of the Joker’s); it was during that search that a picture with the name “GKhaos” next to it showed up. The picture was of Harley Quinn. Khaos, and a psychotic clown? Of course I had to take a look. Going to her page, I discovered that this was the page of a bitter and angry individual who only created the page because her friends were starting to drive her a little bit nuts asking her to create a page. The page was covered in interesting graphics; some of the things written as descriptions flew over my head like Old Crow. Usually, I try to avoid people of whom I fear are probably smarter than myself, but I could not resist… And history was created. I had found a twisted, clown cohort who understood my take on the “Great Life Joke” and we became a bit chummy.

Soon, however, she had to leave MySpace (I believe she went off to study some alien technology that would aid her in creating her own “pokies”). Yet, she did gift me with the wonderful Rhonda-Maria, a new friend whom I grew rather fond of….. To get to the point, Rhonda-Maria boasted that a blog post from the wonderful GKhaos was to appear in her blog. Thinking that she was perpetrating some kind of cruel joke on your humble narrator (as she is a rather cunning and shifty lesbian), I warned her that she should not be telling fibs. As it turns out, she was not telling fibs and she did indeed post a blog written by none other than GKhaos. A blog that should have I commented properly, would have taken a lot of space in Rhonda-Maria’s comment box. So, I decided to post my literary response here, in my own blog. I fear that you will be a little short-changed in this deal as you cannot see what her responses were, but this blog is not about her, it is all about me (and I am a narcissist, you know) So without further ado, shall we begin?….

“My Response to GKhaos”

Please share your opinions on the following:

1 – Head

Your response to this mirrored mine in the beginning: “I freaking love head! I’m not going lie or pretend to be all prissy.” However, our opinions begin to diverge at this point a little bit. You see, I am a person who not only appreciates two heads between his legs (I cannot wait for you who are slow on the draw to catch up with the puns…heh), but I love to reciprocate. Yet, I must agree with you on the: “I love going down, it’s my favorite thing.” However, it is not just the guys. In fact, you chicas have the blow-job game so sewn up that guys begin to think of the act as a reward or obligation. Now, do not get me wrong, we gentlemen do have our short-comings (not I; my junk is tremendous. Just ask Shaved-Belly Sheniqua), but the Sword of truth wielded by the dear, blind Lady Justice is two-sided and cuts both ways. All I am saying is: before we enter this debate, we all need to have clean hands (unless said hands are coated with some sort of edible massage lubricant).

One other point on which we agree is the cleanliness issue. Again, this goes both ways. No one wants a sewer or diseased mouth on their privates, but then no one wants their mouth turned sewer-y or worse by said privates. This one is more for the guys, however. If you want to get the sucky-sucky, at least wash your fucking nutsack. One last thing; I do appear to be a bit pickier in the partner requirements, more than tongue mouth and lips are necessary; I need a pretty face because I like to watch…heh heh.

2 – Tacos

Being a vegetarian, I do not get to eat tacos often. Sometimes, I will have my chef make them out of that soy meat stuff, and they are delicious! Yet, I must agree that after the first bite of a hard shell taco, you are the unfortunate possessor of Taco Salad. Speaking of which, what in the Hell is Taco Salad? And who came up with it? Crushed tacos on a plate? Maybe it went down like this:

Murry: “Hey, Alexander! Got those tacos for table three? They’re getting a bit impatient!”

Alexander: “Yeah, I got ’em right here! Shit!”

Murry: “Fool! You dropped them, and they broke into pieces! Table three is going to leave!”

Alexander: “Hey, relax, baby-nuts! Look, we take the tacos and put them in this fresh bowl. Now we crush the shells a little bit more and, peep this, we call it an authentic Mexican dish: ‘‘Taco Salad’.”

Murry: “Bloody fucking genius! But what about those flecks of dirt? Oh, wait! We can cover this shit in sour cream and guacamole and the chumps will never notice!”

Alexander: “Now you are thinking, my friend. You know, we should start our own restaurant. We can sell food that we advertise as Mexican food and we’ll even give the food names that Mexican foods have. Only, we’ll never say the food is Mexican directly. People will just eat it and shut up. If we pack enough beans in our shit, people will either eat too much or not enough, either way we sell it dirt cheap and hire potheads to work the counters. We’ll can call ourselves: ‘Taco Bell!’”

Murry: “Fuck yeah!”

And a legend was born…..

3 – Why Joey Porter should always be a Steeler:

Who is Joey Porter and why and what is he stealing? Do we need to quickly divert funds to buffer the Foundation’s security?

4 – Gay Porn

Like GKhaos, I do love my pornography. Be it gay or straight (and not involving: children, excrement, urine, animals, or people in “furry” suits, I agree that pornography is good and should be watched with friends, alone, or in a bar if you happen to be there when I have my iPhone (which is far more convenient and cozy than a laptop). To be honest, however, I am partial to straight porn. For starters, I have not seen much male-on-male gay porn, but I cannot erase the image of sweaty Bubba hunched over some co-prisoner, or some degenerate in a gimp suit mincing about behind some wanna be hardcore punk or thug who just also happens to be a knob goblin. Besides, I agree with Elaine Benes’ take on the naked human male: “Naked, is not a good look for a man.”

Lesbian porn? I admit and agree, there appears to be a strange lacking of the “mulleted-butch dyke” in lesbian porn. Flanneled or unflanned, I do not mind the svelte blondes, brunettes, redheads, etc, and I find their discomfort in wearing the strap-on enticing in a bondage-fairy sort of way. As for the use of toys in lesbian pornography, I cannot answer why these women never know how to properly use a double-headed dildo. Why they choose to suck on them? I have no clue…latex fetish or extreme oral fix? Really, now.

Perhaps I am a bit naïve in the world of lesbians, but really do not understand why lesbians would use a dildo of any sort. To me, it seems illogical; I mean most lesbians do not really have dicks, do they? As for women who use them in what I will call “bi-porn,” they always strike me as if they are being passive-aggressive in a “nanner-nanner” sort of way. I must say, however, that I do not think that if two lesbians are getting it on, they are going to stop to suck any guy’s dick be it false or real.

5 – The Moral Ethics of Killer Clowns

“Killer Clowns have no moral ethics. They will kill you, fuck you, and then eat you if given enough time and opportunity.” I whole-heartedly agree with this sentiment. Beneath the grease paint “smile” lurks a tooth-gnashing, blood-curdling, soul-rending, murder-lust that seeps through said “smile;” catching those unaware with a misleading sense of security, so that they may do their evil deeds. GK, while I do not believe that you are a freak for wanting to sleep with Heath Ledger’s corpse, I do question your sanity on wanting to sleep with just any clown…and I hope that is not the case. Their squeaky noses, seltzer bottles and over-sized shoes are a barrel o’ monkeys until they pull out their razors…

As for the Joker, Harley Quinn and Pennywise…well, I love them, they hold no pretenses and present to the world the full truth about clowns.

6 – Token Heteros

Heh…I find myself on the opposite side of your coin. I have friends who would all purport to be the token hetero. However, the males tend to listen to musicals and know the difference between fuschia and cerise; the females can hear your car engine rattle from a mile away and tell you what you need repaired, or can readily lift two hundred pounds from a dead lift and beat the shit out of most body-builders. Token heteros? Naaaa! “Everybody Gay!!!”….

7 – Can You Squeeze a Bowling Ball from a White Rabbit with Sharp Pointed Teeth?

That is a good and very important question; one that deserves volumes dedicated to its philosophical consideration. Were Orpheus afoot he would surely compose a tremendous melody in honor of whomever could reach the truth on such an issue. Yes, it is more important than Camus’ discourse on suicide, euthanasia, and Martha Stewart. However, it is not one that I have ever pondered. Being a person who owns a bunch of snakes, I tend to view rabbits as potential food items for Na’as, the Burmese Python. Rabbits, have very strong back legs; coupled with their Sharp-pointed teeth, they pose a potential danger for a snake during live feeding. To wit, my principle question regarding said White Rabbit, and said Sharp, Pointed Teeth is: exactly where does one find a rubber mallet big enough to knock the varmint loopy without having to deal with bunny brains strewn about the house?

8 – Will White Persian Cats Someday Rule the World?

1) Indeed, having elected a SpEd to run the United States for eight years following Slick Willie, anything is possible. However, remember that this dangerous SpEd, kept me wealthy during those eight years. Hooray for SpEdident Bush!

2) I hope not, as my snakes may be considered “enemy combatants” and ferreted off to wherever Barak is sending those guys after releasing them from Guantanamo Bay.

9 – Will Those Who Wear Flip Flops With Socks Trip Over Their Socks if Their Socks Lose Their Elasticity?

I really hope that they do trip over the socks. Then it will be easier for me to shoot them in the ass with my Derringer for committing such a horrid fashion faux-pas of flip-flops, and then compounding the problem by adding socks. Yes, get something to treat the onion looking and smelling toenails, and leave the flip-flops.

10 – The Idea of Valium and Red Bull….nuff sed

Valium and Red Bull? I really do not know. For one, I do enjoy my Valium (believe it or not, I can be a bit anxious at times). As for Red Bull, I really do not understand it. Maybe my ADD has prevented me from seeing the effect of the beverage on my system. Maybe my OCD forces me to buy Mt. Dew at the 7-11. Who knows? I sure as fuck do not. On the Alandia website, I came across a recipe for a drink mixing absinthe and Red Bull. Hmmm….that seems like a bad idea; the Green Faery already has wings, do we really need to hype her up as well?.

And that dear folks would be my response to GKhaos. As this is the second time I had to write the damn thing, I apologize for taking so long to post it. Blame MySpace Tom, he is out to get me.