Dear New/Old Owner of (Formerly) Ravenheart Coffee,
You are cute, sir. I mean it. I like your glasses and your attention to detail and how you play Ella Fitzgerald throughout the day instead of the "I hate my parents" emo pop regulars of of last year's play list—that talent-free, purple headed slut from Paramore, and her buddy, the pussy from Florida who wrote that song about 'your hair' and how it's 'eeeeeeehveryyyywhere'—you're a man; grow a dick.
I like how clean your coffee shop is. I like the hours. I like how nobody is screwing minors in the stock room. I like the new furniture and how the tables are separated, and not all lumped together, because that makes it easier for me to be the dark, scary loner I am, and I'm gonna be honest with you—when I'm fresh from my stop at the Safeway sandwich shop, and I've only just eaten my nosh with my Sugar Free Monster Energy drink, I'm absolutely in need of personal space to freely burp and fart within the confines of, and no, I don't want to have to deal with anybody being up in my grill with their crystals/aliens talk when cometh the gas.
Also...deodorant. Nobody in Sedona seems to know what that shit is and I'm not wearing a nose plug while I work.
That said, I have to ask if it would be possible for you not to give me a dirty look every time I come in, buy things from you, spend money in your establishment, and stay on your wi-fi for more than an hour. I realize you'd prefer that your customers come in, drop money and get the eff out, and that you refer to such behavior as "sociable," which totes makes it nice and not all what it really is, which is usery or insensitivity or blatant disregard for what it is that people do in coffee shops, and I realize you have rent to pay, rent that can only be paid if people buy things from you, but guess what: you own and run something called a coffee shop. That's a place that people go to for coffee and also a table to work on.
I know that upsets you. Maybe you could open a McDonalds or something?
Oh wait. McDonalds offers free wi-fi.
Humbly,
E. Rider
PS—And for the love of God, man, swap out the "art" for some art. Please. I'm pretty sure that piece on the way to the shitter is just scrap metal hit with a belt sander, and the remainder is either one of two things: Basha's produce section decoration, or Freshman year Photoshop 101 at Art Institute of Detroit, circa '95 (minus the guy who does the colorful portraits of the smiling ladies—dude's good.) Chris Spheeris is only smoking hot, not smoking hot and good at art, and when you mix your assessment of his work up with your appreciation for his loins, you get...the inside of your coffee shop.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Dear Sedona: RE a shocking rumor!
Dearest Sedona,
1) Pulling over people for making left turns,
2) Illegally searching vehicles,
3) Ticketing upstanding vacationers for driving at 29 miles per hour in 25 miles per hour speed limit zones,
4) Harassing vacationers at trailheads and vortexes,
5) Ensuring by means of cocksuckery and douchebaggery that any vacationer who dares to come here and make a left turn, or do two to three miles over the speed limit, or make a lane change without signaling will never spend another dollar here again,
6) Looking the other way while drug deals are made ON THE BAR at local bars,
7) ...While simultaneously ignoring the epidemic use of prescription drugs by our older populace for their "Restless Leg Syndromes," "Bulging Discs," and "Fibromy-givemedrugs-a,"
8) Following kids home from head shops in which they buy pipes in order to smoke a medicinal plant that doctors prescribe--because it is both more effective and less corrosive to the body than the "Fibromy-givemedrugs-a" type drugs. (FYI--Studies also show this plant is significantly less dangerous than alcohol, so way to go, guys. Oh, screw science! That shit is useless, right?)
9) Writing down the addresses and license plates of these kids so that they may return to the address or vehicle of the "scene of no crime" a day later with the narcotic sniffing dog they've trained to be obsessive about or full-on addicted to drugs, and that abused creature may pick up the scent of the almost totally harmless plant, earning the cop a bust, an ego-boost, some props, a picture in the paper, and good press. A kid's life is ruined, of course, because he had in his possession a plant that's also referred to as a medicine, but whatever. It's good press and props, and men with small penises need props as much as miffed lesbians.
10) Abusing dogs, and yet, ticketing other people for allowing their dogs--dogs they probably don't hook on drugs--to bark twice when a stranger nears their property.
11) Bullying, harassing, narcissistically-annihilating, allowing rich, manslaughtering con-artists to leave the state, arresting people for DUI for sleeping in the passenger side seats of their parked cars, enforcing Hitleresque racial profiling policies, threatening, frightening, openly draining resources without justification, and just basically doing anything but serving the people of Sedona.
I mean, honestly. How could you throw things at them? And can you invite me to your next "toss-shit-at-the-cops" party? I'll bring some lead pipes. Can you make molotovs in empty sugar-free Monster Energy Drink cans? If so, I have about six thou. Hit me up with an invite and they're yours, free of charge.
I have heard a nasty—and I hope, fallacious—rumor about certain behaviors, outbursts and such directed at members of the Sedona Police Department, and I find these rumors, if true, to represent actions so scandalous I feel I must write to you and tell you how disappointed I am.
Did you...do anything naughty as of late? Did you...maybe throw some stuff at some people or something like that?
Wait, I'm beating around this bush, and I hate that. Everyone knows you can't beat around the bush because the clit is smack in the middle of the bush, and so, if you're going to beat around the bush, you're not going to bring her to orgasm and she won't be returning the favor. Therefore, I'm going to beat the bean in the middle of that bush.
Let me ask you this: Did you throw rocks at the Sedona PD? Did you verbally harass our boys and bulldykes in blue?
You did?
Shame. On. You.
Now let me humble you with another series of questions:
How could you possibly justify the maltreatment of our police men and women when you know they seek only to serve the community as best as possible in the following ways:
1) Pulling over people for making left turns,
2) Illegally searching vehicles,
3) Ticketing upstanding vacationers for driving at 29 miles per hour in 25 miles per hour speed limit zones,
4) Harassing vacationers at trailheads and vortexes,
5) Ensuring by means of cocksuckery and douchebaggery that any vacationer who dares to come here and make a left turn, or do two to three miles over the speed limit, or make a lane change without signaling will never spend another dollar here again,
6) Looking the other way while drug deals are made ON THE BAR at local bars,
7) ...While simultaneously ignoring the epidemic use of prescription drugs by our older populace for their "Restless Leg Syndromes," "Bulging Discs," and "Fibromy-givemedrugs-a,"
8) Following kids home from head shops in which they buy pipes in order to smoke a medicinal plant that doctors prescribe--because it is both more effective and less corrosive to the body than the "Fibromy-givemedrugs-a" type drugs. (FYI--Studies also show this plant is significantly less dangerous than alcohol, so way to go, guys. Oh, screw science! That shit is useless, right?)
9) Writing down the addresses and license plates of these kids so that they may return to the address or vehicle of the "scene of no crime" a day later with the narcotic sniffing dog they've trained to be obsessive about or full-on addicted to drugs, and that abused creature may pick up the scent of the almost totally harmless plant, earning the cop a bust, an ego-boost, some props, a picture in the paper, and good press. A kid's life is ruined, of course, because he had in his possession a plant that's also referred to as a medicine, but whatever. It's good press and props, and men with small penises need props as much as miffed lesbians.
10) Abusing dogs, and yet, ticketing other people for allowing their dogs--dogs they probably don't hook on drugs--to bark twice when a stranger nears their property.
11) Bullying, harassing, narcissistically-annihilating, allowing rich, manslaughtering con-artists to leave the state, arresting people for DUI for sleeping in the passenger side seats of their parked cars, enforcing Hitleresque racial profiling policies, threatening, frightening, openly draining resources without justification, and just basically doing anything but serving the people of Sedona.
I mean, honestly. How could you throw things at them? And can you invite me to your next "toss-shit-at-the-cops" party? I'll bring some lead pipes. Can you make molotovs in empty sugar-free Monster Energy Drink cans? If so, I have about six thou. Hit me up with an invite and they're yours, free of charge.
Four dead in O-hi-o!
E. Rider
Friday, April 30, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Oh, Sedona
In all seriousness, way to go.
You used your beans. You cared for yourselves. You don't like lights, and you fucking said so with your votes, didn't you? I'm so proud.
I agree. Something smells funny, and it's not me. I just got tested. No, there's a five million dollar sewer no one is using. Follow that snail trail of excrement-scented incentives back to the shady Shaderton who shat it out, and well...you've got corruption. Good to see your noses are still sharp beneath that many colored Hopi Earth Afghan you've swaddled your neocortexes and various other important brain parts with in order to keep out tricky, collective mentality ruining things like logic or reason. Or evidence. Or truth. Or...you get my point. I think we can agree blankets make things comfy. What's comfier is to take the blanket off, and also take the dick out of your ass.
Can we get along now? I like to take drugs, often and in large quantities, and I don't like being harassed about it. Tell your pigs.
Hugs,
E. Rider
You used your beans. You cared for yourselves. You don't like lights, and you fucking said so with your votes, didn't you? I'm so proud.
I agree. Something smells funny, and it's not me. I just got tested. No, there's a five million dollar sewer no one is using. Follow that snail trail of excrement-scented incentives back to the shady Shaderton who shat it out, and well...you've got corruption. Good to see your noses are still sharp beneath that many colored Hopi Earth Afghan you've swaddled your neocortexes and various other important brain parts with in order to keep out tricky, collective mentality ruining things like logic or reason. Or evidence. Or truth. Or...you get my point. I think we can agree blankets make things comfy. What's comfier is to take the blanket off, and also take the dick out of your ass.
Can we get along now? I like to take drugs, often and in large quantities, and I don't like being harassed about it. Tell your pigs.
Hugs,
E. Rider
Sunday, February 28, 2010
To Sedona, in General
Dear Sedona,
I have grown so fond of you. I think you remain unable to process just exactly what I am and where I come from, and I don't blame you for that. Its a collectivist's dream, this post 911 world we're living in. If I'm crazy, I've got to be woo-woo. Except I like logic, and don't see fairies. If I were of your ilk, I'd wear turquoise with khaki, listen to Chris Spheeris and have a McCain sticker on the back of my not-so-woo-woo spanking new car. Maybe my bumper remains void of any McCainery because I'm not fond of spoiled psychopaths.
Why can't I play? Huh? I may already be worthy of membership, you don't know. If I weren't a member of your club, I wouldn't have enjoyed when you snapped up the remotes and chose for all of us working out at Snap Fitness Fox News' psychotic treasure of a Glenn Beck, and you know what? I did enjoy it. I did. I laughed my nuts off.
I like your stuff. I do. And in an effort to endear myself to you, I'm going to do you a solid.
You don't like lights.
You really don't, and I get why. Sure, I once thought this whole lights vs. no lights thingy was racism in action, but I've since come around to your side of this issue. Our sky, at night, is a treasure, and I can understand why the only lights you're in favor of are the kind made of burning balls of hydrogen and helium. They're so very pretty. They twinkle. Twinkle, twinkle. Sparkle, sparkle.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but these street lights Ms. Nancy Scagnelli is intent upon putting up, they're butt fuggin ugly, aren't they? Like War of the World type lights. They're going to ruin the starscape. Pretty much everybody loses, then, except for: 1) people who like to do jigs in the middle of dimly lit highways when intoxicated, 2) whoever is cutting Nancy Scagnelli in on the considerable construction cost of erecting these fuckers, and 3) that lovely schizophrenic dude who does calisthenics at dawn on Airport Mesa with his nuts hanging out of his running shorts; the one who thinks every light in the sky is a UFO. That's like, what? Maybe ten or fifteen people who win? And the rest of you lose.
So what's the deal, kids? You go to this Scagnelli lady and say, honestly, you don't want lights, and she says, "Oh, you want lights? I can do that. How many?" And then you say, Uh, Nancy, we don't want any lights, and she says, "Yes, lights! I can get you some lights!" And you say, No, no. We don't want any god damn lights, and she says, "I got an idea...let's put up some lights, and while we're at it, let's hire more mentally ill cops with daddy issues."
What will she do next? Appoint your mayor for you? Oh, wait...
I suppose this is none of my business, since I'm the newbie and not really in the club, per se. I suppose I should keep my mouth shut about people I don't know, but I'm not going to do that for many self-indulgent reasons, chief among them the fact that I post these words on the internet, the last bastion of true truth, justice and American narcissism, and in the interest of honoring those three wonderful things I've got to pose this question: if you don't like lights en masse, why would you vote for someone intent upon ignoring your wishes and putting them the fuck up anyway? And furthermore, why would you vote for anyone associated with such a jackass (cough: Jerry Frey: cough)? Because he rides horses? Sure, he may be married to the sort of lady who would verily eat your liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti (slurp, slurp, slurp), but!...he rides horses. Why question his associations? Keep it down, you silly little lambs. He's a horse-riding guy; that makes him the right guy.
I'll tell you what, if there was a ballot I could check guaranteeing I'd never again have to drive down Culp's Hill and say, "Oh, look. A bird!" only to come to the bleak realization that it is just that nylon bastard who flies above the gas station in figure eights of trickery and deceit, and I've been duped yet again, for perhaps the seven hundredth time, I would check that ballot till my pen tore the paper.
You have to honor your own wishes in this world, and honor the leaders who will listen to them and act accordingly, whether they belong to your club or not, or else you'll find yourself paddleless, up shit creek, having to put the lotion in the basket at the risk of getting the hose again. No one wants the hose. Don't vote for the hose.
Sloppy kisses on your faces,
E. Rider
I have grown so fond of you. I think you remain unable to process just exactly what I am and where I come from, and I don't blame you for that. Its a collectivist's dream, this post 911 world we're living in. If I'm crazy, I've got to be woo-woo. Except I like logic, and don't see fairies. If I were of your ilk, I'd wear turquoise with khaki, listen to Chris Spheeris and have a McCain sticker on the back of my not-so-woo-woo spanking new car. Maybe my bumper remains void of any McCainery because I'm not fond of spoiled psychopaths.
Why can't I play? Huh? I may already be worthy of membership, you don't know. If I weren't a member of your club, I wouldn't have enjoyed when you snapped up the remotes and chose for all of us working out at Snap Fitness Fox News' psychotic treasure of a Glenn Beck, and you know what? I did enjoy it. I did. I laughed my nuts off.
I like your stuff. I do. And in an effort to endear myself to you, I'm going to do you a solid.
You don't like lights.
You really don't, and I get why. Sure, I once thought this whole lights vs. no lights thingy was racism in action, but I've since come around to your side of this issue. Our sky, at night, is a treasure, and I can understand why the only lights you're in favor of are the kind made of burning balls of hydrogen and helium. They're so very pretty. They twinkle. Twinkle, twinkle. Sparkle, sparkle.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but these street lights Ms. Nancy Scagnelli is intent upon putting up, they're butt fuggin ugly, aren't they? Like War of the World type lights. They're going to ruin the starscape. Pretty much everybody loses, then, except for: 1) people who like to do jigs in the middle of dimly lit highways when intoxicated, 2) whoever is cutting Nancy Scagnelli in on the considerable construction cost of erecting these fuckers, and 3) that lovely schizophrenic dude who does calisthenics at dawn on Airport Mesa with his nuts hanging out of his running shorts; the one who thinks every light in the sky is a UFO. That's like, what? Maybe ten or fifteen people who win? And the rest of you lose.
So what's the deal, kids? You go to this Scagnelli lady and say, honestly, you don't want lights, and she says, "Oh, you want lights? I can do that. How many?" And then you say, Uh, Nancy, we don't want any lights, and she says, "Yes, lights! I can get you some lights!" And you say, No, no. We don't want any god damn lights, and she says, "I got an idea...let's put up some lights, and while we're at it, let's hire more mentally ill cops with daddy issues."
What will she do next? Appoint your mayor for you? Oh, wait...
I suppose this is none of my business, since I'm the newbie and not really in the club, per se. I suppose I should keep my mouth shut about people I don't know, but I'm not going to do that for many self-indulgent reasons, chief among them the fact that I post these words on the internet, the last bastion of true truth, justice and American narcissism, and in the interest of honoring those three wonderful things I've got to pose this question: if you don't like lights en masse, why would you vote for someone intent upon ignoring your wishes and putting them the fuck up anyway? And furthermore, why would you vote for anyone associated with such a jackass (cough: Jerry Frey: cough)? Because he rides horses? Sure, he may be married to the sort of lady who would verily eat your liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti (slurp, slurp, slurp), but!...he rides horses. Why question his associations? Keep it down, you silly little lambs. He's a horse-riding guy; that makes him the right guy.
I'll tell you what, if there was a ballot I could check guaranteeing I'd never again have to drive down Culp's Hill and say, "Oh, look. A bird!" only to come to the bleak realization that it is just that nylon bastard who flies above the gas station in figure eights of trickery and deceit, and I've been duped yet again, for perhaps the seven hundredth time, I would check that ballot till my pen tore the paper.
You have to honor your own wishes in this world, and honor the leaders who will listen to them and act accordingly, whether they belong to your club or not, or else you'll find yourself paddleless, up shit creek, having to put the lotion in the basket at the risk of getting the hose again. No one wants the hose. Don't vote for the hose.
Sloppy kisses on your faces,
E. Rider
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
To the Judgmental Woman who Sold me a Skull
Dear JWwSmaS,
You’re selling skulls, okay. What’s with the ‘tude?
Granted, it was the skull of a cow I was buying from you, which is the skull of an animal we humans verily eat and skin and use in any way we please, and score 1 for you, because the dead cow skull is a clichéd piece of southwester décor--along with those rusted antique appliances and hole-punched pieces of tin—but I don’t think it was necessary to so unceremoniously balk at my suggestion.
If I so choose to adorn my cow skull with rhinestones and feathers, I so choose, and this is free country, dammit! And if I so choose to ask you how I can further add to my skull and war weapon collection with the skull of a human (an animal we other humans—in a way—verily use) it is my right to ask. Maybe I was just joking (I wasn’t), and you didn’t get my unique sense of humor. Maybe YOU’RE the problem, judgmental skull seller. Yeah.
You see, we all get to choose. It was your choice to grow that grizzled mane of old lady hair and eschew any of the helpful products in the beauty aisle of your grocery store, growing hair and doing nothing attractive with it. I didn’t roll my eyes at your frizz. Inwardly, perhaps, but I’d never let you know I find your decisions in life—like the decision to never, and I mean never, wear sunscreen at any point during your tenure on this planet--to be foolish. These decisions are yours. You want to look like one of your saddles? Okay then.
What I mean to say is, you don’t get to tell me what to collect, missy. You don’t get to tell me what to do with what I collect. You know what? I’m off to the craft store. Oh, yeah. The craft store. You know what I’m going to buy there? Glitter. Lots and lots of glitter, and I’m gonna whore that cow head up till its as gay as a Technicolor Dreamcoat in a lube factory!
Sincerely,
E. Rider
You’re selling skulls, okay. What’s with the ‘tude?
Granted, it was the skull of a cow I was buying from you, which is the skull of an animal we humans verily eat and skin and use in any way we please, and score 1 for you, because the dead cow skull is a clichéd piece of southwester décor--along with those rusted antique appliances and hole-punched pieces of tin—but I don’t think it was necessary to so unceremoniously balk at my suggestion.
If I so choose to adorn my cow skull with rhinestones and feathers, I so choose, and this is free country, dammit! And if I so choose to ask you how I can further add to my skull and war weapon collection with the skull of a human (an animal we other humans—in a way—verily use) it is my right to ask. Maybe I was just joking (I wasn’t), and you didn’t get my unique sense of humor. Maybe YOU’RE the problem, judgmental skull seller. Yeah.
You see, we all get to choose. It was your choice to grow that grizzled mane of old lady hair and eschew any of the helpful products in the beauty aisle of your grocery store, growing hair and doing nothing attractive with it. I didn’t roll my eyes at your frizz. Inwardly, perhaps, but I’d never let you know I find your decisions in life—like the decision to never, and I mean never, wear sunscreen at any point during your tenure on this planet--to be foolish. These decisions are yours. You want to look like one of your saddles? Okay then.
What I mean to say is, you don’t get to tell me what to collect, missy. You don’t get to tell me what to do with what I collect. You know what? I’m off to the craft store. Oh, yeah. The craft store. You know what I’m going to buy there? Glitter. Lots and lots of glitter, and I’m gonna whore that cow head up till its as gay as a Technicolor Dreamcoat in a lube factory!
Sincerely,
E. Rider
Sunday, January 17, 2010
To the Smoking-hot, Christ-worshipping, Homeless Terrorist
Dear SHCWHT,
You are so dreamy. Dude.
Even with the stench. Even with the several feet of dreadlocked, licey hair that festoons your schizophrenic noggin. Even with your love of all things Jesus and bathing with Ayurvedic soap in public park rivers. Even with those teeth. You are hot, my friend.
We met in a coffee shop. I was doing my job (oh, I’m such a materialist; such a godless drone!) You were attempting to color-correct photos of Aryan Jesus for some purpose. You smelled like an old gym sock. I wouldn’t have helped you if you didn’t have those eyes and that bod (oh, I’m a wanton whore!) You don’t believe in the concept of material ownership, but somehow had a laptop with Adobe brand photo-editing software. I taught you how to use it while breathing through my mouth. You informed me that casting off the burdens of material ownership was the only way to achieve the state of true and constant bliss you operate from within, and also that you’d also like to throw yourself off the tallest rock in Sedona.
We had a deep and extremely confusing discussion about the many simultaneous contradictions you presently hold in your pretty, pretty, bug-infested head region. You like Jesus, I’m totally sure of that. You like Jesus, and you like smoking weed. I was excited because, though I find his followers wholly repellent, I dig Jesus, and I think its also pretty apparent—if you’ve read this or any other of my missed connection type musings—that I enjoy smoking weed. A lot. We had a deep spiritual thingy going. Or rather, with a few minor changes to your person we could have made a deep spiritual connection, and by “few minor changes” I mean you would have had to shower with chemical soap and cut off the nest of hair, and by “deep spiritual connection” I mean two days worth of dirty fucking in every contortion in the Kama Sutra followed by you not calling me or coming to my house ever again.
If only you hadn’t also been a terrorist.
Yes, I understand that God and Jesus made the earth and that all things upon it (weed) are beautiful, and the many wonders of God and Jesus’ making (weed and mushrooms) are placed within our grasp as a people in order for us to both enjoy ours lives (by smoking weed and eating mushrooms) and to well-sustain these separate skin sacks our spirits inhabit. I understand that God's and Jesus' wonders include the rivers and streams you routinely bathe within without achieving any sort of cleanliness. I do not, however, think it’s a good idea to blow up dams in order to release reservoirs that support and sustain communities, irrigate farm land and keep the many people who live beneath them not dead so that wondrous chunks of water can flow in unimpeded, disastrous tsunamis through developed land to the oceans, in the process, murdering God's and Jesus' less wondrous creations: American citizens.
I get your fervor. I love that you love, love, love Jesus and weed. Your eyes and your ass make my nether regions wet as your schizophrenic fantasy of a dam-less America, but what kind of patriot would I be if I fucked a terrorist? Not a good one, sir, and how can I disparage a country that continually tolerates--nay caters to--my wanton, drunken, drug-crazed, materialistic, narcissistic generation, which I love and cherish with all four chambers of my hard, black, slutty heart?
I say good day to you, sir!
Kisses,
E. Rider
PS—If I were going to throw myself off a Sedonian rock, I’d go with Coffeepot Rock, which is tall enough to get the job done, but also, politically speaking, carries with your suicide the dual message of “Dams are sacrilege,” AND “This rock doesn’t look like a Coffeepot any more.” I don’t know when Sedona is going to realize this.
You are so dreamy. Dude.
Even with the stench. Even with the several feet of dreadlocked, licey hair that festoons your schizophrenic noggin. Even with your love of all things Jesus and bathing with Ayurvedic soap in public park rivers. Even with those teeth. You are hot, my friend.
We met in a coffee shop. I was doing my job (oh, I’m such a materialist; such a godless drone!) You were attempting to color-correct photos of Aryan Jesus for some purpose. You smelled like an old gym sock. I wouldn’t have helped you if you didn’t have those eyes and that bod (oh, I’m a wanton whore!) You don’t believe in the concept of material ownership, but somehow had a laptop with Adobe brand photo-editing software. I taught you how to use it while breathing through my mouth. You informed me that casting off the burdens of material ownership was the only way to achieve the state of true and constant bliss you operate from within, and also that you’d also like to throw yourself off the tallest rock in Sedona.
We had a deep and extremely confusing discussion about the many simultaneous contradictions you presently hold in your pretty, pretty, bug-infested head region. You like Jesus, I’m totally sure of that. You like Jesus, and you like smoking weed. I was excited because, though I find his followers wholly repellent, I dig Jesus, and I think its also pretty apparent—if you’ve read this or any other of my missed connection type musings—that I enjoy smoking weed. A lot. We had a deep spiritual thingy going. Or rather, with a few minor changes to your person we could have made a deep spiritual connection, and by “few minor changes” I mean you would have had to shower with chemical soap and cut off the nest of hair, and by “deep spiritual connection” I mean two days worth of dirty fucking in every contortion in the Kama Sutra followed by you not calling me or coming to my house ever again.
If only you hadn’t also been a terrorist.
Yes, I understand that God and Jesus made the earth and that all things upon it (weed) are beautiful, and the many wonders of God and Jesus’ making (weed and mushrooms) are placed within our grasp as a people in order for us to both enjoy ours lives (by smoking weed and eating mushrooms) and to well-sustain these separate skin sacks our spirits inhabit. I understand that God's and Jesus' wonders include the rivers and streams you routinely bathe within without achieving any sort of cleanliness. I do not, however, think it’s a good idea to blow up dams in order to release reservoirs that support and sustain communities, irrigate farm land and keep the many people who live beneath them not dead so that wondrous chunks of water can flow in unimpeded, disastrous tsunamis through developed land to the oceans, in the process, murdering God's and Jesus' less wondrous creations: American citizens.
I get your fervor. I love that you love, love, love Jesus and weed. Your eyes and your ass make my nether regions wet as your schizophrenic fantasy of a dam-less America, but what kind of patriot would I be if I fucked a terrorist? Not a good one, sir, and how can I disparage a country that continually tolerates--nay caters to--my wanton, drunken, drug-crazed, materialistic, narcissistic generation, which I love and cherish with all four chambers of my hard, black, slutty heart?
I say good day to you, sir!
Kisses,
E. Rider
PS—If I were going to throw myself off a Sedonian rock, I’d go with Coffeepot Rock, which is tall enough to get the job done, but also, politically speaking, carries with your suicide the dual message of “Dams are sacrilege,” AND “This rock doesn’t look like a Coffeepot any more.” I don’t know when Sedona is going to realize this.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
To the Sedona Wildlife
Hello all.
I know you have missed me. I know it. I know I flow within your blood as homogenously as your hemoglobins and other hemo-bloodo-globo bullshit. I am part of you. I'm in your dendrites. I'm your DNA. You've missed me. You've thought about me while jerking off. You've totally missed me. That's why this creative excursion is called "Missed" Sedona. Yeah. Wicked. Grrr.
So anyway, I'm going to interrupt your anonymous seeking of wet holes and hard cocks once again, just cuz I feel like being clever, and don't hate, okay? Its not like I'm getting more sex than you. I might be just as desperate. You never know. Maybe this is my way of getting dick? HAHA, just kidding. The only people getting fucked more regularly than me are those OSHO motherfuckers. I thought of making unrepentant whoring a religion in 1996, and in my version of this cultish religion, everybody gets a rimjob. Is this not better than OSHO? Am I, in my infinite rimjobby wisdom not fit for OSHO membership? Quite clearly I am. It just so happens I'm open to joining, so long as I don't have to meditate or fuck a guy with a long, dangling ballsack. If any of your OSHO's have nuts like that desk assessory with the clicky, swingy balls that knock back and forthe, I'm out. Otherwise, call me.
So yeah. This entry is dedicated to the Sedona wildlife, specifically a clan of skunks who live on or near 89A by The Olde Sedona. This clan may have experienced the loss of a member as of late. This member's intestines might still be on the right front tire of my SUV. This is a formal apology. I did not mean to take one of your own.
In my defense: What the fuck was a Skunk doing darting in front of a three ton vehicle? Was he going to stop it? Was this like a movie, where a character runs into the road and puts his hand up to stop a vehicle in which the love of his life sits, ready to go to France for a semester abroad, during which time she'll surely forget him? A Skunk? What do they weigh? Ten pounds? What would possess this gentleman to think it would be a good idea to play Frogger in front of the Olde Sedona, and at 2am no less? Doesn't matter what day. Its the Olde Sedona. There's no normal people in that bar. It's Monkeys mating. Monkeys drinking. Monkeys driving. I know. I frequent the place.
If a Monkey were driving a three ton vehicle, would a Skunk run in front of it? Is there anything in the OSHO bible about the OSHO god granting its OSHO Monkey people dominion over Skunks? If not, there should be. Skunks are dumb and when I think about OSHO's in their cars, I'm imagining they're giving handjobs and roadhead. That's a sex cult I can back. I can get behind that kind of religion, even if driving is fucky sucky time and some Skunks die as a result.
Wait. You shouldn't talk about the deceased like that. Sincerest apologies to the brood of Skunks whose brother I splattered. It aint right.
In memoriam,
E. Rider
I know you have missed me. I know it. I know I flow within your blood as homogenously as your hemoglobins and other hemo-bloodo-globo bullshit. I am part of you. I'm in your dendrites. I'm your DNA. You've missed me. You've thought about me while jerking off. You've totally missed me. That's why this creative excursion is called "Missed" Sedona. Yeah. Wicked. Grrr.
So anyway, I'm going to interrupt your anonymous seeking of wet holes and hard cocks once again, just cuz I feel like being clever, and don't hate, okay? Its not like I'm getting more sex than you. I might be just as desperate. You never know. Maybe this is my way of getting dick? HAHA, just kidding. The only people getting fucked more regularly than me are those OSHO motherfuckers. I thought of making unrepentant whoring a religion in 1996, and in my version of this cultish religion, everybody gets a rimjob. Is this not better than OSHO? Am I, in my infinite rimjobby wisdom not fit for OSHO membership? Quite clearly I am. It just so happens I'm open to joining, so long as I don't have to meditate or fuck a guy with a long, dangling ballsack. If any of your OSHO's have nuts like that desk assessory with the clicky, swingy balls that knock back and forthe, I'm out. Otherwise, call me.
So yeah. This entry is dedicated to the Sedona wildlife, specifically a clan of skunks who live on or near 89A by The Olde Sedona. This clan may have experienced the loss of a member as of late. This member's intestines might still be on the right front tire of my SUV. This is a formal apology. I did not mean to take one of your own.
In my defense: What the fuck was a Skunk doing darting in front of a three ton vehicle? Was he going to stop it? Was this like a movie, where a character runs into the road and puts his hand up to stop a vehicle in which the love of his life sits, ready to go to France for a semester abroad, during which time she'll surely forget him? A Skunk? What do they weigh? Ten pounds? What would possess this gentleman to think it would be a good idea to play Frogger in front of the Olde Sedona, and at 2am no less? Doesn't matter what day. Its the Olde Sedona. There's no normal people in that bar. It's Monkeys mating. Monkeys drinking. Monkeys driving. I know. I frequent the place.
If a Monkey were driving a three ton vehicle, would a Skunk run in front of it? Is there anything in the OSHO bible about the OSHO god granting its OSHO Monkey people dominion over Skunks? If not, there should be. Skunks are dumb and when I think about OSHO's in their cars, I'm imagining they're giving handjobs and roadhead. That's a sex cult I can back. I can get behind that kind of religion, even if driving is fucky sucky time and some Skunks die as a result.
Wait. You shouldn't talk about the deceased like that. Sincerest apologies to the brood of Skunks whose brother I splattered. It aint right.
In memoriam,
E. Rider
Saturday, June 6, 2009
To the Owner of the Peyote I Ate Last Night
Dear Owner of the Peyote I Ate Last Night,
I'm sorry. I really am. I don't know what to say, other than I'm sorry I stole your Peyote and ate it.
I'd been watching its progress. I know they're not indigenous to this region--Wikipedia says so--and you put it in the cutest little terracotta pot, so clearly you meant to enjoy it at some point. That will not be happening, because I got trashed, stole your cactus, cut it up and ate it. And then puked like a motherfucker.
In my defense, I am insane. I don't know what else to tell you. Is it the full moon? My doctor says no. He says that while the moon is powerful enough to move quadrillion killogallons of ocean water around, it has no affect on my chemistry whatsoever, and really, what I ought to do is take the brand of Flouride-based brain medicine whose logo is all around his office. He's the expert.
It did not go totally to waste, as I had a dream that I was a talking anus who said some very sagelike things. Email me, and I'll share them with you.
Toodles,
E.
I'm sorry. I really am. I don't know what to say, other than I'm sorry I stole your Peyote and ate it.
I'd been watching its progress. I know they're not indigenous to this region--Wikipedia says so--and you put it in the cutest little terracotta pot, so clearly you meant to enjoy it at some point. That will not be happening, because I got trashed, stole your cactus, cut it up and ate it. And then puked like a motherfucker.
In my defense, I am insane. I don't know what else to tell you. Is it the full moon? My doctor says no. He says that while the moon is powerful enough to move quadrillion killogallons of ocean water around, it has no affect on my chemistry whatsoever, and really, what I ought to do is take the brand of Flouride-based brain medicine whose logo is all around his office. He's the expert.
It did not go totally to waste, as I had a dream that I was a talking anus who said some very sagelike things. Email me, and I'll share them with you.
Toodles,
E.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
To Joey "The Ranger"
Dear Joey "The Ranger,"
You're sweet. I sense that, deeply, and not because I have magical, new-age, psychic abilities, but because you seemed so nice when you asked if you could take me out into the woods and photograph me naked. Just you and I. Far from civilization, where no one can hear my screams.
That said, I do not believe you--a man of 55 with a large pot belly, atrophied limbs and not enough wherewithall to recall the color or location of his car--are an Airborne Ranger set to head to the Middle East on another tour of duty next month for which you will be paid 50 million dollars. In fact, hon, I think that's a bit of a whopper.
Cordially,
E.
You're sweet. I sense that, deeply, and not because I have magical, new-age, psychic abilities, but because you seemed so nice when you asked if you could take me out into the woods and photograph me naked. Just you and I. Far from civilization, where no one can hear my screams.
That said, I do not believe you--a man of 55 with a large pot belly, atrophied limbs and not enough wherewithall to recall the color or location of his car--are an Airborne Ranger set to head to the Middle East on another tour of duty next month for which you will be paid 50 million dollars. In fact, hon, I think that's a bit of a whopper.
Cordially,
E.
Friday, May 29, 2009
My Dream for Sedona
Dear Sedona,
I was chillin' in my hot tub earlier this evening, easing my muscles, and the Shiraz and the deadlifts and the squats really got the best of me. I sort of passed out right there and fell asleep.
Well, I had the most erotic dream, and I feel I must share it with you.
I was outside the trailer park on 89A where all the Mexicans live. I was outside the park, but somehow, lucidly, the embodiment of the entire town of Sedona. I mean, I was the town. It seems pretty stupid, but shit, what doesn't seem stupid when you're dreaming? There was this one time I dreamed I was a fish swimming upstream in Angelina Jolie's vagina. Not logical. Fun, but not logical. Anyway, I was outside the trailer park, and I decided that, my city motto of: We are all one (except the Mexicans) was kind of stupid. I decided it was really stupid, actually, and that Mexicans were people, too, and if they died walking across 89A, well shit, that was something I should be upset about.
So, because I was a whole town--just suspend disbelief with me here--I had magical powers, too. Sparks flew from my fingertips as I pointed to various spots in my periphery, and wherever the sparks popped, cropped up the sexiest street lights you ever saw!
One of them grew out of the ground right in front of me, all hot and sexy, coated in Crisco, and as I humped it, Mexicans walked freely to and fro across 89A without fear of dying, like real human beings Sedona gives a shit about, and the world was a better place, because--in the end--this was a place in which Mexicans were people too, and when they died, it actually mattered. Go figure.
Sexy dream, no? I thought it was. Better than my usual dreams of swimming in vaginas and beheading my relatives.
With love,
E.
I was chillin' in my hot tub earlier this evening, easing my muscles, and the Shiraz and the deadlifts and the squats really got the best of me. I sort of passed out right there and fell asleep.
Well, I had the most erotic dream, and I feel I must share it with you.
I was outside the trailer park on 89A where all the Mexicans live. I was outside the park, but somehow, lucidly, the embodiment of the entire town of Sedona. I mean, I was the town. It seems pretty stupid, but shit, what doesn't seem stupid when you're dreaming? There was this one time I dreamed I was a fish swimming upstream in Angelina Jolie's vagina. Not logical. Fun, but not logical. Anyway, I was outside the trailer park, and I decided that, my city motto of: We are all one (except the Mexicans) was kind of stupid. I decided it was really stupid, actually, and that Mexicans were people, too, and if they died walking across 89A, well shit, that was something I should be upset about.
So, because I was a whole town--just suspend disbelief with me here--I had magical powers, too. Sparks flew from my fingertips as I pointed to various spots in my periphery, and wherever the sparks popped, cropped up the sexiest street lights you ever saw!
One of them grew out of the ground right in front of me, all hot and sexy, coated in Crisco, and as I humped it, Mexicans walked freely to and fro across 89A without fear of dying, like real human beings Sedona gives a shit about, and the world was a better place, because--in the end--this was a place in which Mexicans were people too, and when they died, it actually mattered. Go figure.
Sexy dream, no? I thought it was. Better than my usual dreams of swimming in vaginas and beheading my relatives.
With love,
E.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
To the Copper who Pulled me Over in the Rain
Dear Copper,
To start, I back the blue. Let's just get that out of the way. I appreciate the valuable services you provide our communities with. You put your life on the line so that our society may run like a well-oiled, faceless, mind-controlling automaton, and that's noble, dammit. Not to mention, few things are as aesthetically pleasing as a man or bulldyke in uniform. So there you have it. I like you. You're great.
But, one does wonder how it is that you never seem to be in the right place at the right time.
Take a few Wednesdays ago, for instance, when my flirtations with the scary barkeep at the Hideaway put me at six Ales past my limit, and I decorated the floor of Sedona Liquors with a bottle of Chardonnay (not mine), and then drove home. Where were you? I was breaking the law, sir, and flagrantly. I may as well have ghost ridden my whip up 89A.
Then there's that scene, two days ago: you pulling me over in the rain.
I agree with you, I was definitely driving in the turning lane. I am not arguing that point. I was sober, and I was driving down 89A in the turning lane, for sure. I also agree with you, that cars have two lanes to drive within, the right and left, and that should be enough. There's no need to drive down the middle of the street.
But--as we figured out through an open dialog--I was in the turning lane because I was turning. To my knowledge, I was not aware of a law against turning left. That's all I was trying to do. I was trying to turn left into the Giant gas station, in order to pick up a few cans of sugar free Monster energy drink.
I did note your embarrassment, and I think it's unnecessary. I don't think you should judge yourself too harshly. This shit happens. I've vented now, and I think we should totally be friends. I'll even give you a tip: I'm pretty sure the barkeep at the Hideaway is a half human/half alien hybrid. You should go check his papers. They can't be coming here, stealing our medical services and not paying taxes. They have their own planet for that sort of thing.
You're welcome,
E.
To start, I back the blue. Let's just get that out of the way. I appreciate the valuable services you provide our communities with. You put your life on the line so that our society may run like a well-oiled, faceless, mind-controlling automaton, and that's noble, dammit. Not to mention, few things are as aesthetically pleasing as a man or bulldyke in uniform. So there you have it. I like you. You're great.
But, one does wonder how it is that you never seem to be in the right place at the right time.
Take a few Wednesdays ago, for instance, when my flirtations with the scary barkeep at the Hideaway put me at six Ales past my limit, and I decorated the floor of Sedona Liquors with a bottle of Chardonnay (not mine), and then drove home. Where were you? I was breaking the law, sir, and flagrantly. I may as well have ghost ridden my whip up 89A.
Then there's that scene, two days ago: you pulling me over in the rain.
I agree with you, I was definitely driving in the turning lane. I am not arguing that point. I was sober, and I was driving down 89A in the turning lane, for sure. I also agree with you, that cars have two lanes to drive within, the right and left, and that should be enough. There's no need to drive down the middle of the street.
But--as we figured out through an open dialog--I was in the turning lane because I was turning. To my knowledge, I was not aware of a law against turning left. That's all I was trying to do. I was trying to turn left into the Giant gas station, in order to pick up a few cans of sugar free Monster energy drink.
I did note your embarrassment, and I think it's unnecessary. I don't think you should judge yourself too harshly. This shit happens. I've vented now, and I think we should totally be friends. I'll even give you a tip: I'm pretty sure the barkeep at the Hideaway is a half human/half alien hybrid. You should go check his papers. They can't be coming here, stealing our medical services and not paying taxes. They have their own planet for that sort of thing.
You're welcome,
E.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
To the UFO over the Safeway, Re: Pictures
Dear UFO over the Safeway,
I do appreciate the email. I must begin by saying that, because I know you're a UFO and that means you hover and fly and evade, and all of those things are taxing. When I saw you, you were doing loop-dee-loops in circles, and I thought to myself, "Boy, that looks taxing. That UFO's gonna need a coffee or a sugar free Monster energy drink or something." So, I thank you for taking time out of your busy loop-dee-looping schedule to get in touch with me.
That said, I told you I'm not the kind of girl who hands out naked pictures of herself to strangers. I do not believe that creatures from your ecosystem will suffocate and perish if they do not look at naked pictures of women. In fact, I think you are lying to me.
I am offended, I must say. I don't know how you can make this right.
Come to think of it, I could forgive a UFO kind enough to dispose of that trickster of a nylon bird who flies over the "Y." It mocks me.
TTFN,
E.
I do appreciate the email. I must begin by saying that, because I know you're a UFO and that means you hover and fly and evade, and all of those things are taxing. When I saw you, you were doing loop-dee-loops in circles, and I thought to myself, "Boy, that looks taxing. That UFO's gonna need a coffee or a sugar free Monster energy drink or something." So, I thank you for taking time out of your busy loop-dee-looping schedule to get in touch with me.
That said, I told you I'm not the kind of girl who hands out naked pictures of herself to strangers. I do not believe that creatures from your ecosystem will suffocate and perish if they do not look at naked pictures of women. In fact, I think you are lying to me.
I am offended, I must say. I don't know how you can make this right.
Come to think of it, I could forgive a UFO kind enough to dispose of that trickster of a nylon bird who flies over the "Y." It mocks me.
TTFN,
E.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
To Enchantment Resort: A Retraction
Dear Enchantment Resort,
I feel it necessary to print a retraction of yesterday's post. I have since learned more about you, what lies beneath you and why you must exist.
I recently found myself in a B&B hot tub with smoking hot homeless guy, who may or may not have brought a bar of soap into the tub with us, I won't say. I will say I have discovered the source of his homelessness, which is dual: he is a free spirit, and very fiscally irresponsible. Who am I to judge? I get a big paycheck and its hookers and blow for everyone! Let's sip champagne from condor eggs!
Our conversation eventually drifted to Enchantment Resort, and I commenced to bitching and moaning about industrial ceilings and desecration of sacred burial grounds--a sizeable rant, since it's that time of the month--and then homeless guy told me a thing or two about what's actually going on beneath the resort--the truth of the matter--and why the place must exist. Boy, did I feel like an ass.
Why didn't you tell me you're a cover for an ancient Lemurian civilization/underground cloning facility dedicated to the production of alien/human hybrid specimens and human clones for rich sensualists so mired in narcissism they're willing to pay top dollar to have paradoxical sex with themselves (who's the top?) I feel like I wouldn't have been so mad at you if you had been honest.
Anyway, it all makes sense now. It's understandable, and I'm not only completely supportive of your mission, I'm interested in having a gander at your price list. It's not that I'm piqued by the idea of having sex with myself. I'd like to think, if I switched teams, I wouldn't be into getting with a lady who had the body of a twelve year old boy. No, it's that cloning oneself sounds like an interesting novelty, I'm fiscally irresponsible, and I sure could use an extra pair of hands around the house. Consider how much procrastinating and masturbating I could get done if there were two of me. It boggles the mind.
In closing, I formally apologize, and I hope to hear from one of your sales representatives post haste.
Eagerly,
E.
I feel it necessary to print a retraction of yesterday's post. I have since learned more about you, what lies beneath you and why you must exist.
I recently found myself in a B&B hot tub with smoking hot homeless guy, who may or may not have brought a bar of soap into the tub with us, I won't say. I will say I have discovered the source of his homelessness, which is dual: he is a free spirit, and very fiscally irresponsible. Who am I to judge? I get a big paycheck and its hookers and blow for everyone! Let's sip champagne from condor eggs!
Our conversation eventually drifted to Enchantment Resort, and I commenced to bitching and moaning about industrial ceilings and desecration of sacred burial grounds--a sizeable rant, since it's that time of the month--and then homeless guy told me a thing or two about what's actually going on beneath the resort--the truth of the matter--and why the place must exist. Boy, did I feel like an ass.
Why didn't you tell me you're a cover for an ancient Lemurian civilization/underground cloning facility dedicated to the production of alien/human hybrid specimens and human clones for rich sensualists so mired in narcissism they're willing to pay top dollar to have paradoxical sex with themselves (who's the top?) I feel like I wouldn't have been so mad at you if you had been honest.
Anyway, it all makes sense now. It's understandable, and I'm not only completely supportive of your mission, I'm interested in having a gander at your price list. It's not that I'm piqued by the idea of having sex with myself. I'd like to think, if I switched teams, I wouldn't be into getting with a lady who had the body of a twelve year old boy. No, it's that cloning oneself sounds like an interesting novelty, I'm fiscally irresponsible, and I sure could use an extra pair of hands around the house. Consider how much procrastinating and masturbating I could get done if there were two of me. It boggles the mind.
In closing, I formally apologize, and I hope to hear from one of your sales representatives post haste.
Eagerly,
E.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
To Enchantment Resort
Dear Enchantment Resort,
You're so awesome.
I know when I head out to Boynton Canyon to hike or meditate or breathe fresh air, the things I'd most like to see nestled between those two orange tsunamis of grand swirling rock carved into their exquisite selves by a million years' worth of wind are industrial ceilings, air conditioning vents, parking lots and the glimmer of sun reflected off a golf cart or a putter. Kudos. I agree with you, the place needed to be spruced up. Its not as if its one of the most beautiful natural settings on earth and one of the holiest. Perhaps we ought to level the Vatican, too, and put up some condos. Nothing holies up a religious center like a couple hundred rich white fucks in sunhats.
I only say this because I know, when I die, I totally want the people who stole from, incarcerated, raped, slaughtered and defamed my own people to play tennis on my bones. That seems completely fair.
So I say thank you, Enchantment Resort. Thank you for being so damn classy.
Warmly,
E.
You're so awesome.
I know when I head out to Boynton Canyon to hike or meditate or breathe fresh air, the things I'd most like to see nestled between those two orange tsunamis of grand swirling rock carved into their exquisite selves by a million years' worth of wind are industrial ceilings, air conditioning vents, parking lots and the glimmer of sun reflected off a golf cart or a putter. Kudos. I agree with you, the place needed to be spruced up. Its not as if its one of the most beautiful natural settings on earth and one of the holiest. Perhaps we ought to level the Vatican, too, and put up some condos. Nothing holies up a religious center like a couple hundred rich white fucks in sunhats.
I only say this because I know, when I die, I totally want the people who stole from, incarcerated, raped, slaughtered and defamed my own people to play tennis on my bones. That seems completely fair.
So I say thank you, Enchantment Resort. Thank you for being so damn classy.
Warmly,
E.
Monday, May 18, 2009
To the Gentleman who Offered me a Ride in His 'Copter
Dear Gentleman who Offered me a Ride in His 'Copter,
I met you at that Japanese/Chinese restaurant (odd). On the lounge side. I don't frequent the restaurant side because there's a god damned dark crystal in it's lobby, and though it's been a good twenty years since I last saw that satanic movie, I remain--today--terrified of any large crystals of a dark purplish color, most horseshoe crabs and all raptors.
It was winter. February? If I remember correctly, you are blonde with glasses. Cute, too, like puppies, high-ponies, and pink and green bikinis. You offered me a ride in your helicopter. I would have taken you up on it, had I not recently escaped a particularly draining long-term relationship. I was feeling a bit bitter about the whole thing, and not yet ready to date. I felt tired and burned. I felt like curb-stomping the next man who came within ten feet of me...that sort of thing. The usual.
But I'm totally ready now, rested and recouped, and I can virtually guarantee, should you take me for a ride in your helicopter, that I will not curb-stomp you. There are no curbs in the sky.
I must ask you to hurry up and find me, though, because I'm kind of horny, and smoking hot homeless guy from the coffee shop may not have a job or a place to live, but he's smoking, and best of all, he knows an alien/human hybrid person. I think we can agree that meeting an alien/human hybrid person is way more exciting than going for a ride in a helicopter, unless of course, the helicopter has a flux capacitor, and then it totally trumps. For sure.
I can't date you both concurrently. That doesn't seem right. I mean, what if Sedona put on--hypothetically speaking--an Enchantment Under The Sea dance type thing, and we went together, and had a nice makeout in the parking lot--I don't know where I'm getting this from--and smoking hot homeless guy caught us, flipped out and said something like: "Get your damn hands off her," before knocking you out? That's violence, which is totally uncool. You know I'm joking about the curb-stomping, baby.
Here's what I propose: Meet me at Twin Pines Mall at 1:15am. Bring one point twenty-one jigawatts worth of plutonium, and I'll bring a half-drunk case of sugar free Monster Energy drink. We'll get your 'copter going 88 miles per hour and see if the sparks don't fly.
I won't curb-stomp you,
E.
I met you at that Japanese/Chinese restaurant (odd). On the lounge side. I don't frequent the restaurant side because there's a god damned dark crystal in it's lobby, and though it's been a good twenty years since I last saw that satanic movie, I remain--today--terrified of any large crystals of a dark purplish color, most horseshoe crabs and all raptors.
It was winter. February? If I remember correctly, you are blonde with glasses. Cute, too, like puppies, high-ponies, and pink and green bikinis. You offered me a ride in your helicopter. I would have taken you up on it, had I not recently escaped a particularly draining long-term relationship. I was feeling a bit bitter about the whole thing, and not yet ready to date. I felt tired and burned. I felt like curb-stomping the next man who came within ten feet of me...that sort of thing. The usual.
But I'm totally ready now, rested and recouped, and I can virtually guarantee, should you take me for a ride in your helicopter, that I will not curb-stomp you. There are no curbs in the sky.
I must ask you to hurry up and find me, though, because I'm kind of horny, and smoking hot homeless guy from the coffee shop may not have a job or a place to live, but he's smoking, and best of all, he knows an alien/human hybrid person. I think we can agree that meeting an alien/human hybrid person is way more exciting than going for a ride in a helicopter, unless of course, the helicopter has a flux capacitor, and then it totally trumps. For sure.
I can't date you both concurrently. That doesn't seem right. I mean, what if Sedona put on--hypothetically speaking--an Enchantment Under The Sea dance type thing, and we went together, and had a nice makeout in the parking lot--I don't know where I'm getting this from--and smoking hot homeless guy caught us, flipped out and said something like: "Get your damn hands off her," before knocking you out? That's violence, which is totally uncool. You know I'm joking about the curb-stomping, baby.
Here's what I propose: Meet me at Twin Pines Mall at 1:15am. Bring one point twenty-one jigawatts worth of plutonium, and I'll bring a half-drunk case of sugar free Monster Energy drink. We'll get your 'copter going 88 miles per hour and see if the sparks don't fly.
I won't curb-stomp you,
E.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
To the Mad Flagger who Deemed my Most Recent Post Obscene
Dear Mad Flagger,
In a way, in a sense, kind of: you're correct. It was obscene. Not the post, but the "deposit." It was obscene and offensive and just plain wrong, which is why--if you put yourself in my shoes and empathize with that poor toilet bowl--you'll understand the need for an apology.
Also, don't hate, homey. You too can produce something similarly demonic. All you have to do is drink a case of Monster Energy drink (sugar free) and eat a few jars of dill pickles. It's not that hard. Eat, drink and wait, and in three days, you'll give birth to Damien.
All I ask is that you don't subject that poor toilet to any further torment.
With kind regard,
E.
In a way, in a sense, kind of: you're correct. It was obscene. Not the post, but the "deposit." It was obscene and offensive and just plain wrong, which is why--if you put yourself in my shoes and empathize with that poor toilet bowl--you'll understand the need for an apology.
Also, don't hate, homey. You too can produce something similarly demonic. All you have to do is drink a case of Monster Energy drink (sugar free) and eat a few jars of dill pickles. It's not that hard. Eat, drink and wait, and in three days, you'll give birth to Damien.
All I ask is that you don't subject that poor toilet to any further torment.
With kind regard,
E.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
To the Taco Del Mar Ladies' Toilet
Dear Taco Del Mar Ladies' Toilet,
You're such a happy toilet. Always clean and well-stocked with a fresh roll of TP, and that pink and green bikini on your door? Too cute. This is why I feel I owe you an apology for the evil and rancid nature of yesterday's deposit.
I'm told I'm erratic, and I think I agree with that. Sometimes--without even noticing it actually--I do silly things. Things like consuming dill pickles and sugar-free Monster Energy drink exclusively until I'm back down to my birth weight. I'd tell you what happens to a colon when a case of sugar-free Monster Energy drink mingles with six jars of pickles and marinates three days, but...you already know.
I offer my sincerest apology. It can't have been a pleasurable experience for you, and I do appreciate your effort. I'll forward my positive impressions of your work ethic to the good people at the Sedona Sewage Treatment Facility. An apology is owed to them as well. I'd send a violent missive to the makers of Monster Energy drink, but really, what else can one expect from a product with the words "Unleash the Beast" printed upon on its exterior?
Humbly,
E.
You're such a happy toilet. Always clean and well-stocked with a fresh roll of TP, and that pink and green bikini on your door? Too cute. This is why I feel I owe you an apology for the evil and rancid nature of yesterday's deposit.
I'm told I'm erratic, and I think I agree with that. Sometimes--without even noticing it actually--I do silly things. Things like consuming dill pickles and sugar-free Monster Energy drink exclusively until I'm back down to my birth weight. I'd tell you what happens to a colon when a case of sugar-free Monster Energy drink mingles with six jars of pickles and marinates three days, but...you already know.
I offer my sincerest apology. It can't have been a pleasurable experience for you, and I do appreciate your effort. I'll forward my positive impressions of your work ethic to the good people at the Sedona Sewage Treatment Facility. An apology is owed to them as well. I'd send a violent missive to the makers of Monster Energy drink, but really, what else can one expect from a product with the words "Unleash the Beast" printed upon on its exterior?
Humbly,
E.
Friday, May 15, 2009
To the Saucy Wench who Works the Bar at the Olde Sedona
Dear Saucy Wench,
To begin, I must tell you I think you're kind of adorable. Your high pony is too cute and you always smell like strawberries. Sure there was a time I considered going into Gynecology, if you know what I mean, but that was ages ago--my college days--after that night Lauren LaSpina, the captain of the womens' Lacrosse team, and I drank wacky mushroom tea and ended up rolling in a big pile of leaves out in front of the Sig Pi house. One thing led to another, and another, and I eventually found myself holding hands at an art gallery, being forced to talk about my feelings. It was not cool. When I get a case of the "feelings" I like to head to the nearest watering hole, which happens to currently be the Olde Sedona, and seek out a wise apothecary such as yourself, so that I may medicate myself with lots of healthy, healthy alcohol. I feel like men understand this a little better than women, which is why I prefer sausage to taco.
Anyway, I tangent. I'm writing you, because I think you seem like a trustworthy individual, and though my gut instincts are almost always wrong, I'm going to go ahead and offer you the reins to my liver anyway.
Here's the deal: When I order a round of Patron, and I can't pronounce the vowels in Patron any more, so that it comes out all consonants, like: "Ptrn," you can go ahead and shut me down. Feel free to get me a water and call me a cab.
It may be too much to ask on top of all that, but if you could seperate me from the gentleman at my side as well, that would be fantastic. "Gentleman" is almost never a gentleman, if you know what I mean. Of course, none of this would be a problem if I could simply open up and talk about my feelings, maintain a taco frame of mind, but I have to say I find it so much easier to drink the emotions away for another day. Procrastination is the key to a happy existence.
Thanks in advance,
E.
To begin, I must tell you I think you're kind of adorable. Your high pony is too cute and you always smell like strawberries. Sure there was a time I considered going into Gynecology, if you know what I mean, but that was ages ago--my college days--after that night Lauren LaSpina, the captain of the womens' Lacrosse team, and I drank wacky mushroom tea and ended up rolling in a big pile of leaves out in front of the Sig Pi house. One thing led to another, and another, and I eventually found myself holding hands at an art gallery, being forced to talk about my feelings. It was not cool. When I get a case of the "feelings" I like to head to the nearest watering hole, which happens to currently be the Olde Sedona, and seek out a wise apothecary such as yourself, so that I may medicate myself with lots of healthy, healthy alcohol. I feel like men understand this a little better than women, which is why I prefer sausage to taco.
Anyway, I tangent. I'm writing you, because I think you seem like a trustworthy individual, and though my gut instincts are almost always wrong, I'm going to go ahead and offer you the reins to my liver anyway.
Here's the deal: When I order a round of Patron, and I can't pronounce the vowels in Patron any more, so that it comes out all consonants, like: "Ptrn," you can go ahead and shut me down. Feel free to get me a water and call me a cab.
It may be too much to ask on top of all that, but if you could seperate me from the gentleman at my side as well, that would be fantastic. "Gentleman" is almost never a gentleman, if you know what I mean. Of course, none of this would be a problem if I could simply open up and talk about my feelings, maintain a taco frame of mind, but I have to say I find it so much easier to drink the emotions away for another day. Procrastination is the key to a happy existence.
Thanks in advance,
E.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
To Coffee Pot Rock
Dear Coffee Pot Rock,
You're so cute. Other rocks, they're majestic and sort of godlike--and I can so understand the whole kachina-doll-seeing-gods-in-rocks thing--but none of them come close to being as cute and accessible as you. You're so round. So symmetrical. I guess that's why I have to be the one to tell you this. No one wants to hurt your feelings.
You don't look like a coffee pot any more.
Sure, there was a day, long ago, when you were the spitting image of a coffee pot, but that was before industrial design was born and we as a culture went through many, many imaginative stages of coffee pot reinvention. The archaic coffee pot you resemble made 72 pints of coffee per brew--whether you wanted just one cup or not--and its handle gave you third degree burns.
Here's what I propose: A name change! Nomenclature modernization! Re-branding! I'd say you look more like a pitcher, or a rooster, or something. I'd think pitchers, being the keepers of iced teas or lemonades or flavored packet beverages that come in all sorts of zesty colors, would be a better association. We could even go and get you some corporate sponsoring, you know. We could name you Kellogg's rock, because you really do look like a rooster. Can you imagine the Pink Jeeps and the Red Jeeps: "On your right is Kellogg's rock. Next stop, Frosted Miniwheats Mountain."
You could give that sponsorship money to your community, and they could do all sorts of nice things for Sedona, like buy more of those street lights they love so much.
Adoringly,
E.
You're so cute. Other rocks, they're majestic and sort of godlike--and I can so understand the whole kachina-doll-seeing-gods-in-rocks thing--but none of them come close to being as cute and accessible as you. You're so round. So symmetrical. I guess that's why I have to be the one to tell you this. No one wants to hurt your feelings.
You don't look like a coffee pot any more.
Sure, there was a day, long ago, when you were the spitting image of a coffee pot, but that was before industrial design was born and we as a culture went through many, many imaginative stages of coffee pot reinvention. The archaic coffee pot you resemble made 72 pints of coffee per brew--whether you wanted just one cup or not--and its handle gave you third degree burns.
Here's what I propose: A name change! Nomenclature modernization! Re-branding! I'd say you look more like a pitcher, or a rooster, or something. I'd think pitchers, being the keepers of iced teas or lemonades or flavored packet beverages that come in all sorts of zesty colors, would be a better association. We could even go and get you some corporate sponsoring, you know. We could name you Kellogg's rock, because you really do look like a rooster. Can you imagine the Pink Jeeps and the Red Jeeps: "On your right is Kellogg's rock. Next stop, Frosted Miniwheats Mountain."
You could give that sponsorship money to your community, and they could do all sorts of nice things for Sedona, like buy more of those street lights they love so much.
Adoringly,
E.
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