I would like to apologize for not updating my blog

I know it’s been several months since I updated this internet blog. And I know many of you are – to say the least – disappointed.

I won’t go into the reasons why, though rest assured there are many (prison, brain cancer, farming accident, space exploration, celebrity poker, Hands Across America, pregnancy, Emerson Lake & Palmer, tigers!, potassium, the Civil War, Tom Hanks, more tigers!, Indonesian pit fighting, a doppelganger locking me in a metal box for six weeks and charging $10,000 worth of phone sex on my credit cards, hovercrafts, argyle socks, Toto’s first three albums, the 1968 Winter Olympics, kudzu, Steel Reserve, plankton, white hole singularities, the Electric Slide, Palm Olive). Still these would serve as mere excuses and won’t make up for the fact that it’s been over seven months since I gave you a dose of what COMPLETES YOU. Namely ME and the minutia of my life.

Seven months. Seven fucking months.

I’ve received hundreds of angry letters. And thousands of tear-drenched missives, suicide notes, nude Polaroids and court orders all PLEADING me to give at least some kind of sign that I still was here, and that I still cared. I’d like to say I’m sorry. But it won’t replace the hurt. All I can do is ask for your forgiveness.

Will you forgive me?

I know some of you have been unable to eat and sleep. I know some of you have been forced to quit your jobs due to anxiety and general malaise. I’d like to ask for special forgiveness from the one fan who had a miscarriage related to my absence; I can’t bring your dead baby back but what I CAN do is let you know that I’ve asked my prayer group to hold a special Black Mass in your honor. We’ll sacrifice a newborn calf and dance sky-clad upon the Mount of Sorrow. Then we shall orgy, as is the fertility rite, with you and your atrophied lifeless fetus in our hearts.

And I’d like to offer up a promise to all of you: That I will never let this happen again. I will never again leave you stranded in the sea of Blogopia on a blog-raft made of blog-flotsam & blog-jetsam, left without a paddle or jet engine or harpoon of any sort, without sustenance, without meaning or purpose to your lives, left without anything save the dim hope that one day your Savior shall return.

Well here I am. I have returned. And I shall never let this happen again, my minions. But if I do, I shall apologize again in a similar fashion.

Universe... Part 2: Enter The Screech Owl!

Dr. Pentramadon informed me that I'd be initiated into BODY-ROKK, the University of Lower Kentucky's think-tank/dance-troupe. The heavy-on-nudity rite prescribed the imbibing of tea made from a rare South American root, one that induced heavy vomiting and even heavier hallucinating. I disrobed as instructed and was introduced to the other members of the troupe.

X-FAKTOR: A streetwise mulatto kid from the Bronx. He took up dance as a way to escape gang life. He'd been working as counselor at the East Bronx Community Center teaching dance moves to at-risk youths when a space/time wormhole formed as a result of one of his windmill backspins. I took his threats to "fuck me in the throat with a Rambo knife" with a grain of salt. I knew underneath that hard shell exterior laid a soft nougat center.



PROTRAKTOR: This one-time magnet school prodigy had fallen onto hard times after a lovesick Broadway producer severed his leg with a saber. Since he couldn't afford a prosthetic limb he was fitted with a wooden duck decoy. He was doing street-performance for amyl nitrate money when Dr. Pentramadon discovered him. Protraktor's many offers of back rubs were disconcerting, though not entirely unappreciated.



DIGITAL BOB: Digital Bob's quest in the early 80's to perfect the urban dance style known as "The Robot" drove him to madness. He was now convinced he was an actual robot. Bob spent his free time lubing himself with Pennzoil 10W-30 and inserting sheet metal screws into his anus. He claimed this was how he got his robot-nutrients, but he was saving up money to get a solar panel installed so he could get energy from the sun. Though clearly insane, Bob had a good soul and a pure heart.



















LISA SKILLZ: Lisa Skillz was as tough as she was beautiful. She spent most of her childhood selling stolen cigarettes for her bleach-drinking, HIV-positive transvestite two dads until an unfortunate roller-blading accident left her an orphan. Her life took another sad turn at age 13 when she suffered a stroke as a result of her heavy meth habit. The stroke gave her a rare form of Tourette's Syndrome that compelled her to shout out the endings of recent releases whenever she entered a Blockbuster Video.



Lisa spent her late teens bouncing from one foster home to another until a former instructor for the Soviet State Ballet took Lisa under her wing and taught her the ways of dance... and love. Though Lisa Skillz swore up and down that she was gay -- as attested by the "MAN-H8ER" tattoo across her abdomen -- I could tell that like most would-be lesbians she just needed a good hard dickin.' And I was just the stallion to provide it.

After we'd all puked up the enchiladas Dr. Pentramadon had served for lunch (in retrospect a poor choice on his part), the psychotropic nature of the root tea took effect. As our trip neared its peak Dr. Pentramadon set needle to wax and 1000 watts of Technotronic's "Pump up the Jams" emanated from the JBL speakers mounted in every corner of the heptagonal chamber.

The troupe formed a circle and began the pulsing body-movements that signified the start of the ritual. As our rhythmic undulating became more pronounced my spirit rose from its dancing flesh-vessel and hovered mid-air. I watched as my physical "self" turned into a bio-mechanical dog with springs attached to its feet that bounced back and forth to the rhythm. I/it eventually gained enough momentum to bounce clear across the room and embed itself into one of the flesh-taffy walls. Spongy armadillo-like alien genitalia emerged from the mire and absorbed my animatronic animated exoskeleton until there was nothing left of me but a single "Tic-Tac" mint glowing with the intensity of a thousand suns. My soul-self was then whisked away by my fellow astral travelers into a transluscent orb travelling just under Light Speed through the hydrogen and interstellar dust of the Horsehead Nebula. HERE was where the REAL research was done.

Dr. Pentramadon's spirit-self explained to me that a nefarious secret order within the Public Broadcasting System had been monitoring BODY-ROKK's activities and selling the information to the Albanian Government. Therefore the only safe means of conducting research was through astral projection. All quite sound I'd thought at the time, or at least based on enough science-business that my tripping-balls brain was more than willing to accept it.

A sheet of linoleum was laid out on the floor of the "living laboratory" as the good doctor referred to his inter-galactic snow globe. We popped-n-locked whilst meditating on Lagranian Field Theory and how its quantization preserved the symmetry of diffeomorphism invariance. It was majestic. It was magic. How I returned to my organic form I'll never know, but when I awoke 17 hours later caked in a porridge comprised of my own body fluids I was certain of one thing: I was a man of science.

The next six years were a flurry of dance-science activity. The troupe had made great strides researching the quantum fluctuations of empty space, and there'd even been talk of a Nobel Prize. Apart from the troupe I'd been busy preparing my doctoral dissertation: A solo dance piece set to Ravel's "Gaspard de la nuit" that applied Dirac's Equation to ferromagnetic fields. And as I'd surmised from our first meeting, Lisa Skillz's penchant for poontang was simply due to the fact that she'd never had a taste of my cock-sauce.

True, she'd rebuffed my advances for the first few years; going so far as shooting me with a Tazer and even trying to chemically castrate me in my sleep. But after a particularly hot and sweaty night of research frolic Lisa gave in to her desire for what bulged liked a box-turtle in the crotch region of my Danskin tights. My lioness charged at me, stuck her tongue into my ear and whispered "do me so hard I get a urinary tract infection, Big Daddy." Spandex was shed like sheets of dead skin from a burn victim's back, and over the next six hours I inserted my meat-wand into all her available orifices there on the athelete's-foot infested floor of the ULK dance studio. It was majestic. It was magic. After the sex-business we laid naked on that bacterial nest discussing our hopes and dreams. As it turned out Lisa Skillz and I shared a common goal: To some day retire to a castle in Lithuania and spend our twilight years making amateur porn.

But little did we know, our dabbling with blue cinema would come sooner rather than later...

It was but a few weeks after my tryst with Ms. Skillz when an assassination attempt by a hard-line sect of Amish Luddites put our beloved Dr. Pentramadon into a coma from which he would never return. ULK was forced to close the doors of its College of Science for fear of further terrorist attacks.

But BODY-ROKK was not prepared to give up what we'd worked on so hard for so long. We were on the verge of a major scientific breakthrough that would change life as we knew it. And though deprived of our benevolent leader we were but a ship without a storm -- a cold without warm -- BODY-ROKK would not give in to the light inside the darkness that it needs. Nay, we were taking our shit underground.

Protracktor knew of an abandoned tuberculosis hospital from his homeless male prostitute days. After we ejected the crack-heads and punk-squatters via shotguns loaded with rock-salt, we scrubbed the feces off the walls and got to work transforming the place into our Secret Research Cave. Wood floors were installed. Strobe lights and lasers put in. A 10,000 watt sound system and mirrored disco ball added the finishing touches. As comfortable as we'd been with the ULK dance studio this was something on the bleeding edge of both dance and science. Still, all that advanced technology came at a cost. Racked with debt and incapable of applying for Federal grants due to the covert nature of our work, we all agreed that we'd need an alternate revenue stream to complete our research. And it better be a damned good one. I don't know who got the idea first. Maybe we'd been working together so long that our collective consciousness spat it out of each of our mouths simultaneously. Still, it made perfect sense. We were already comfortable with the close proximity, physical contact, and nudity that our research required. Why not take it to the next level? It was agreed unanimously that in order for BODY-ROKK to survive, we'd have to make pornography. And that’s when the JIZZ-NIBBLERS video series was born.

To Be Continued

I Think I've Got the Universe Pretty Much Figured Out (Part 1)!

Due to my religious upbringing I wasn't allowed to study science. My parents loved me very much (in spite of my not feeling likewise), but they were a tad overprotective. Wait, does keeping me in a burlap sack until the age of 15 qualify as "overprotective?" I believe it does. And does forcing me to wear gun-mufflers at all times -- just in case a negro-person with a jam box strolled by the compound and exposed me to "soul music" -- qualify as overprotective? I'll just add that to the "yes" column. But nothing displayed my parents' mollycoddling in a clearer light than their approach to home-schooling.

Math, though not strictly forbidden, was limited to basic addition and subtraction. The numbers 5 and 6 were not allowed, nor were any equations that resulted in the number 3. I was not allowed to use any mathematical symbols (e.g. +, -, =, etc) since, according to my mom, "symbols look like gremlins and gremlins are of the devil." And the one time I broached the subject of fractions I got a hot soldering iron shoved in my eye.

History lessons were limited to events of the week previous, and only events that occurred in our backyard. Geography consisted of a map of Belgium, however the names of the cities had been crossed out with a black magic marker (referring to markers as "magic" would have resulted in a soldering iron being shoved in my eye, so we called them "fancy sticks"). The only literature I was exposed to was a stack of TV Guides entirely blacked out with fancy sticks, and Gym Class was just my dad beating me with a leather strap.

But science, of course, was outright verboten.

One could argue that I'd have benefited more from a formal education in a public school (and the social-worker from Child Services argued this quite effectively right before Dad shot him). However my parents did not want to take the risk that I'd be exposed to any ideas, ideologies, or thoughts that would contradict the tenant of our faith: That the Universe was created by a sentient novelty rainbow wig named SPARKLE.

(Our Lord, shown here expanding the consciousness of a minion)

And as crazy as it all seems now, I accepted the way I was raised as entirely normal. It wasn't until I'd left the S.P.A.R.K.L.E. compound, after the mass-suicide left everyone I'd ever known dead in a smelly heap (Reverend Tolson put the cyanide in a dish of Shepard's Pie - little did he know I was terrified beyond reason of Shepard's Pie), that I began to scrutinize my upbringing. Maybe, I'd thought to myself on the long bus-ride from the Cult Deprogramming Center to my new foster home, the Universe had not been willed into existence by a novelty rainbow wig at all. Maybe it had been willed into existence by an entirely different novelty item. Or maybe, JUST MAYBE... it had been the result of some sort of science-business.

As a ward of the state I was entitled to attend the local community college sans charge. It was there that I began my quest for knowledge. I started with remedial courses in the fundamentals, since my education contained obvious holes. As it turns out I was a quick study, because before I knew it, I was applying to PhD programs across the nation. Though the limited curriculum at the community college left me armed with only an associate's degree in jazz-aerobics, I knew that my desire for knowledge would not be sated until I'd conquered one of the most daunting arenas of academia: Quantum Physics.

The rejection letters poured in; Stanford, Harvard, MIT, even Cornell wouldn't have me. Still I remained hopeful, sending out applications to every post-graduate school in the nation until my tenacity finally paid off. I urinated with joy upon receiving the letter of acceptance from the University of Lower Kentucky, hand-written on the back of a humorous cocktail napkin by the Dean of ULK's School of the Sciences himself, Dr. Kojak Pentramadon.

As it turns out, Dr. Pentramadon had not been dissuaded by my undergraduate studies in jazz-aerobics; in fact, it was the very reason he'd accepted me. For Dr. Pentramadon had a very unique approach to unraveling the marvels of wave mechanics, the mysteries of Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, and the wonders of quantum entanglement: Interpretive Dance.

My first day of doctoral pursuit started quite typically; with a dance-off. I was led into a dark chamber where Dr. Pentramadon was doing a variety of stretching exercises the likes of which I'd never seen before. He gave no hint or prelude as to what was in store next -- but when I heard the opening strains of C+C Music Factory, I knew it was time for fight-or-flight.

We dance-battled for the better part of seven hours, neither of us speaking or breaking the stoic expressions on our faces. We communicated through movement, expressed ourselves to the rhythm, and made bold declarations to the beat. Of course I knew I was no match for the good Doctor. He was merely testing the limits of my abilities. But still I was confident that our battle left him impressed. As his many man-servants wiped the sweat from our bodies with terrycloth towels, he turned to me and finally spoke. "You got moves, kid" he said, "and some of 'em ain't half-bad."


To Be Continued

Restaurant Review: El Guapo!

El Guapo Mexican Cantina
7250 Melrose Ave
Hollywood, CA 90046
Date(s) attended: 08/16/05, 10/11/05



El Guapo specializes in sub-El Torito Mexican fare and atrocious service, catering to a clientele of date-rapists. I would not be surprised in the slightest to find a rohypnol-dispenser in the Men’s Room.

In fact the only thing that did surprise me was that I made it out of there at all without getting raped. I’m almost offended, but I suppose there was plenty of easier prey for the Omega Chi Gangbang pledges to savage on the pool table.

Oh, wait; there is no pool table… of course. Why would an establishment marketing itself as a “Mexican Cantina/sports bar” have a pool table? Everyone knows that Mexicans can’t play pool, and pool is not a sport.

The staff at El Guapo moves at a pace normally reserved for glaciers and quadruple-amputees. I waited no less than 17 minutes as the scowling pubescent girls behind the bar contended with four paying customers ordering bottled beer. When I finally received my order I tipped my sociopath barkeep 17 cents; enough to let her know that I didn’t forget to tip, but that she deserved far less than what an illegal farm-worker receives for an hour of backbreaking labor. I hope this life-lesson stays with her until her trust fund runs out, but that’s unlikely. More likely she’ll be so entrenched in therapy from the numerous sexual assaults she received at the hands of El Guapo customers that her atrocious work ethic will matter little.

In summation, you should only patronize El Guapo if you hate your life, or if you’re planning to rape someone.

Holy Shit, DIO Loves Rainbows!

I was but a wee lad, fresh out of juvie. I'd been FALSLEY ACCUSED then subsequently FOUND GUILTY BEYOND A REASONABLE DOUBT of killing, mutilating, and performing UNSPEAKABLE ACTS upon "dozens" of neighborhood house pets. Okay, mostly turtles. And yeah, okay, I did it. But that's not the point of this story now is it? The point of the story is that I was but a wee lad, fresh out of juvie. And my family had decided to throw me a "WELCOME HOME" party.

That's what the banner above the door said anyway. I can't say that I'd felt particularly welcome. Turns out my father had rented my room to some Cuban refugees who were plotting Castro's overthrow from my bunk bead. I hated Castro too, hated that beardy son of a bitch more than God hates yellow devil Chinamen, but I sure as hell wasn't happy about having to sleep on a tarp in the garage for the cause.

Little did I know that this day would turn out to be the BEST DAY OF MY LIFE. Not for the joy of reuniting with my loved ones, nor for the five cans of Sterno my Uncle Tony had given me, but for the same reason May 12, 1983 was the best day in the lives of 10,238 other people as well (at least according to the data in the RIAA vaults). For there beneath the Christmas tree, covered in decaying pine-needles and rotten candy canes, wrapped in the NH UNION LEADER Sunday Funnies was a roughly 12" x 12" rhombus that I instinctually knew was a record album. Vinyl, you know. That was the device of choice in those days for conveying the sound waves of rock, back when people actually cared what their music sounded like. Oh, don't get me started on these new-fangled "CD's" that the kids down at the LaRouche campaign headquarters are always raving about...

I unwrapped that sucker as fast as I could (I wasn't allowed music in the juvie hall after repeated listens to Judas Priest's "SCREAMING FOR VENGEANCE" inspired me to don leather biker apparel and offer to "service" guards from the receiving end of a glory hole I'd burrowed in the particle-board of the recreation center's handball court). The cover was intoxicating: A giant demon, throwing the devil's horns with his left hand, hurling a chain-enshrouded PRIEST into murky ocean depths with his right. THIS was an album. With songs. Songs about Rainbows.

Dio's debut release, "Holy Diver."

Indeed, Ronnie James Dio had done more for rainbow-awareness than anyone in the heavy metal community. Scour the lyrics of the Dio catalog and you'll find no fewer than 12,345,417 mentions of the word "rainbow." But Dio was not the only singer of his era to make rainbows his muse. A nefarious puppet by the name of Kermit the Frog had attempted in vain to decry Dio's rainbow-awareness efforts and take the rainbow crown for himself via the PAUL WILLIAMS-penned aural-sacrilege of "Rainbow Connection."

"Why are there so many songs about rainbows?"

Like we didn't know whom he was addressing with that supposedly hypothetical question? Come on Kermit, I know you were smart enough even then -- after the meth had rotted your cerebral cortex and you were forced to turn tricks for a twenty a pop on that seedy corner of Sesame and Christopher to support a $1000 habit -- to discern the inherent irony of writing a song about rainbows that contains THAT little gem of a line.

So Dio's "Rainbow in the Dark" was a fitting callback, nay a terrifying battle cry:

" There's no sign of the morning coming -- You've been left on your own Like a Rainbow in the Dark"

Holy Diver? More like Holy Shit! With those 19 simple words Dio had not only thrown down the gauntlet, he'd laid that little green bastard to waste. Is it any wonder that the Kermit's "master of puppets" -- Jim Henson -- would die alone, dejected, and riddled with microbes? Nay, Crom is a cruel God, but he is also a just God, and he knows that the only death worthy a dishonored-though-beloved children's entertainer is to be consumed by flesh-eating bacteria.

Take that Kermit, you fuck!

Kermit shown here about to get a hate-pasting from Peter North.

You were a fool for questioning Dio's love of precipitation-spawned spectra. Hell, Dio had even been in a band called Rainbow. With Richie BLACK-more (black being the absence of all color... whoa, check THAT out). The man can shoot rainbows out of his fucking ass. Only thing coming out of YOUR ass is some microbe-riddled child molester's hand.

One could say that Dio loves rainbows more than he loves dragons. One could say it, but then one would be stupid. Because as much as Dio loves Rainbows, Dio REALLY fucking loves dragons:

Dio's paean to dragon-preservation.

I can't blame Dio for loving dragons as much as he does. It's said that Dio can speak to dragons in their native tongue. Oh, dragons can't speak you say? Well they can. Wait -- dragons can't speak because dragons don't exist, you qualify? Okay, maybe not literally. They don't exist in the sense that Don Mattingly exists, or Oprah Winfrey, or Peaches & Herb, or Tony Orlando & Dawn, or the Bay City Rollers, or the drummer for Culture Club, or Lou Gossett Jr., or Chris Davis my third grade arch-nemesis whose pet turtle I'd coveted, stolen, beheaded, and made sweet love to under the moonlight behind the old dilapidated shack where my dad had kept his kiddy porn. But dragons DO exist... in our hearts. In our hearts you ask in disbelief? Yes Bobby, it's true.

Dragons exist in our hearts.

I immediately took Dio's "Holy Diver" to the study where the phonograph was stored. I listened to it no less than 13,459 times in a ROW, backward and forward, each time becoming more enthralled, more transfixed with the rainbow-and-dragon loving goodness contained therein. I paused only to eat Apple Jacks, wash them down with Sterno, and masturbate furiously before resuming my one-man Dio listening party, a party that's never stopped, not to this day, because I knew on THAT day that there would never be a day as good as this, a day when I could listen to the words of a man and know that this man was speaking ABSOLUTE TRUTHS, truths that could not be called to question for he speaks of the one true thing in each of our hearts, besides dragons, that THOUGH YOU MAY CRY OUT FOR MAGIC it will never come, it will never ever come, until you can accept that like dragons we OURSELVES are rainbows, every last one of us rainbows, rainbows who molest turtles and rob liquor stores and cheat on our taxes and cheat on our wives and cheat at Monopoly and construct ornate yet insidious torture machines in our basements which we use to subject transients to the worst five days imaginable before ripping out their eyeballs with claw-hammers and wearing them for earrings as we prance about in plus-sized prom dresses singing "Cradle of Love" by Billy Idol -- true -- but rainbows just the same.

Holy Shit, COJO is Gay!

Like most able-bodied Americans, I work a job that requires me to get up before noon. I'm no hippy or vagrant or Mexican that can just sleep the day away, oh no… I actually have to rouse myself out of bed in the SINGLE DIGIT hours of the morning and drive to work, whether I'm still drunk from the night before or not.

And like most able-bodied Americans, I've got myself a morning ROUTINE. That is, shit I do every day without fail, because repetition reminds us that life is meaningless and we shouldn't feel bad about trolling interstate rest-stops for prostitutes to kill. My morning routine is likely no different than that of most able-bodied Americans: Wake up, vomit, wash blood stains out of underwear, pray to Crom, stand naked in front of window as Special Needs students walk past to bus stop, take stiff belt of Old Grandad, and watch THE TODAY SHOW.

Yeah that's right, THE TODAY SHOW. Don't pretend you don't watch it. And don't pretend Katie Couric and Ann Curry aren't two of the sexiest middle-aged bitches to have their images shot out of photon cannons. Oh, what I would give to love-rape those two vixens in the ladies' room of some skeevy bus terminal... and I'm not talking about the psyche-damaging, lesbian-making type of rape either, I'm talking about the good kind. The romantic kind.

Ann Curry especially -- whose indeterminate ethnicity is the result of several monkey-races melding DNA to create something far greater than the sum of their parts -- fuels my libidinous fire. Just take a look into her deep brown, sad-clown eyes. She's obviously living with a dark secret, like that her womb bears the fetus-anti-Christ; yet she trudges on, bringing us the news every morning, and never burdening us with the truth that will kill us all. This woman knows of the End Times and she rocks that shit all sexy-like.

So like most able-bodied Americans, as I turn down the volume on my Magnavox and imagine Ann Curry's luscious lips are not telling the world of rat-borne plagues in Paraguay -- but rather are addressing me and me alone, spouting sweet nothings like "put it in my dirty dookie-hole, Frenchie" -- I will release my engorged abortion-makyr from it's leather carrying case and proceed to MASTURBATE. Yes, masturbate. Because cum contains Xenu demons. By cleansing myself of positive-chi-blocking space monsters, I can charge through the rest of my day with an elevated consciousness and higher potential to succeed, right? Right.

However, THE TODAY SHOW is not without fault. It is not the pre-commute TV sex orgy it could be. Matt Lauer has that bland and vaguely unlikable quality so prevalent among today's TV personalities (known to TV scientists as "Carson Daly Syndrome"); and Al Roker is merely a less-queeny, Diversity Staffing version of Willard Scott. But neither of these omega males radiates enough personality to buzzkill a hot and heavy session of Curry-inspired self-abuse. If anything, Roker's presence on-screen enhances the fantasy aspect: It's obvious Roker's longed for years to tap that Curry ass, and here I am – in my mind – sodomizing Ann with an Atlantic salmon on the news desk, on national TV, her loving every minute of it, and Al's crying like child, unable to look away. But there is a presence on THE TODAY SHOW far more repugnant that either of these clowns. A presence that's effect on my personal passion could be described as something like Anti-Viagra. I'm referring of course to that fingernails-on-chalkboard man-harpy that goes by the moniker... Cojo.

It's not Cojo's taste for semen that repulses me. Now, I'm not going to lie to you and say that some of my best friends are gay; because that would obviously make me gay. Let's face it, spend enough time sipping apple martinis at Trunks in WeHo and even the manliest of men – i.e. Tom Sellek – would be sampling from the hors d'oeuvre tray that dare not speak its name. Don't believe me? Spend some time in prison. Where on Earth will you find a testosterone-to-buttlove ratio in more direct proportion than in America's prisons? The gay, like AIDS, is catchier than the theme song to TV's "Alice."

That said I have a deep appreciation for gay culture. I admire the taste, decorum, and fashion sense of Genus Homo Sexual. I admire their senses of humor, their ability to exude an air of fun under any circumstances, and their unrepentant embrace of their personal passions. Is it any wonder that gays throw the best parades in the world? I also admire their want to stick their penises into ANY available orifice. Gay men would fuck a colostomy hole if they could.

So I can say without hesitation that I love the gays. And if I were sent to prison for a crime I didn't commit, or even for a crime I did commit, I would not be chagrined to dabble. Say for instance a posse of Crips decides to use me as their personal pin-cushion? I would not cry out in shame "I'm a gay now!" No, I would wipe the gangsta-jizz from my lip, stand proud, and declare for the entire world to hear: "Yes Bobby, I'm a gay now!"

In fact, for many months I was CERTAIN that Cojo wasn't gay at all, just an incredibly ugly woman (instead of an incredibly ugly man). My penis would still recoil in disgust at the sight of him/her/it. It wasn't until I did some internet research on the nature of this creature that I learned Cojo is in fact a practitioner of ancient Greek party tricks. But truth be told, his homosexuality is not exactly a plus. Not for me so much as for the entire Rainbow Flag nation. Here you have this audio/visual disaster -- looking entirely like a middle-aged nouveau riche housewife from Palm Springs -- spouting off his "fashion expertise" on national television. Just what kind of image is NBC trying to project? More so than even those tasteless creeps on "Queer Eye for the Slightly Less Queer Guy," Cojo brings the whole gay culture down. If there's ever any question as to why we Americans, as far as we've advanced technologically and culturally, will still in this day and age commit heinous hate crimes against homosexuals, like tying them to train trussels and so forth, I offer a simple, one-word answer: Cojo. Yes Bobby, Cojo.

So I think it's high time that gays and straights alike join hands, albeit latex-glove-clad hands, and stand up against the network brass that have foisted this wretched abomination upon our psyches. It's time to let them know we've had enough. Cojo's Warhol-prescribed fifteen minutes have long passed, so let's put him to rest -- preferably in a shallow grave deep in the high-desert. They owe it to us, and it needs to be done. Lest I never achieve erection again -- lest I never again spray my Magnavox with the Clorox-scented goodness of Ann Curry's make -- it damn well needs to be done.

Hey, check out my Neil Diamond fan poetry!

I've been working on this shit for a while. Rather than put my God-Hero in homoerotic situations like the slash-dot fiction geeks do, I'd rather imagine my God-Hero as a vengeance -seeking warrior who sits at the right hand of Crom in His Mountain Lair on high.

The Harkening

I harken to the words, I harken to the words,
the harkening of Brother Love, the singer who sings his song.

Not in a cold voice, but a earthy world-worn voice,
the voice that sooths the night like a precious fog.

But the voice tonight is not at peace,
vengeance and wrath replace the ease,
a beautiful and vengeful beast:
Neil Diamond is the Vindicator.

His sword raised high, he decimates his enemies.
His songs of love replaced but a shrieking battle cry.
The dragons flee, the dust flies like fire from his mane.
"I harken ye, mine enemies to die!"

And die they may, die they might,
a slashing of tendons, a perilous fight,
a screech of ungodly beast in flight,
Neil Diamond rules this night.

Neil Diamond rules, this night.