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
Friday, March 19, 2010
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.
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