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
Saturday, September 19, 2009
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.
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