But indeed, one huge gee thanks to Daria and Smoketh for filling in for me during my hiatus from writing. I’ve discovered that writing this blog has been a huge time chomper, not to mention that it has totally usurped my real life with people telling me always to shut up--they would just read about it. Daria and Smoketh have heeded my persistent, high-pitched whining for someone to write something, and they wrote something in keeping with the spirit of This Could Be a Job for Mulder and Scully—that spirit being the spirit of tinnitus-inducing whinification, self-deprecation, pretend neuroses, and the occasional disgusting themes of crap and bodily fluids. Since no one is really wondering, I am typing this as I am bound in metal-studded leather straps from head to foot, mouth duck-taped, clad only in soiled adult diapers, with someone named Elvira whipping me as I beg for more humiliation. Or maybe Elvira and all of these trappings are just in my head, some sort of male rape hallucination, but maybe not, because my real fantasy is being wrapped from head to foot in Glad Wrap while being blowtorched. I’ll stop now before I get to the coprophagia part. But all kidding aside, what I was really doing in my busy-busyhan portion was getting whipped by someone named Elvira while I was clad only in soiled adult diapers. Wait.
I see that Smoketh has initially told everyone that I am dead, before she went on with the big reveal that I was in some fornicating expedition. Have recently attended a colleague’s mom’s wake, and while in the car with Hurricane Katrina and HIV we got around to discussing what our ideal burial songs would be in the unlikely event that we die in the future, because indeed, we think us all immortal. Hurricane Katrina wanted Seasons of Love from the musical Rent, HIV wanted My Way, and I said I wanted Tori Amos’ 1000 Oceans. There’s nothing more histrionic and dramatic than 1,000 Oceans, with the line “I will cry a thousand more if that’s what it takes to sail you home… sail you home… sail you home….. SAHAHAHAIL! Saahahail you home.”
Daria, on the other hand, wrote about the horrible smell that has assailed us as we were typing away in GJ’s. She gave us an exhaustive thesis on the nature of stench, and all her theories on what we were smelling would have held water had we not discovered soon after what the real nidus of the stench was, because we soon noted just outside the hotel an ongoing septic tank suckification process. “What do they do with all the crap?” I asked Daria. It was one of those questions that I had when I was five that I was sure I would be able to answer in my adulthood, and yet here I am, temples graying and walking with a limp from arthritis, still perplexed on where they send all the crap. Come to think of it, Holden Caulfield had a rather similar question, about where the ducks in the ponds go when they freeze over during the winter. There, I’ve finally done my obligatory literary name drop, I can end this now.
Come on, guest bloggers!