Love And My Love For Morons
I'll get back to my bus trip in a minute. But for now, my head is spinning because of the giant migraine in my ass muscles. I don't mind the wait, and the pain I can handle. My head would be "clear", I guess, if it had a view that wasn't fixedly aimed at big boobs and fingerlake-sized crotches. And a migraine is much more than a crotch-splitting headache.
I quit smoking unfiltered Camels years ago when I realised that it was too hard to separate the menthol from the Real Thing. Trust me, I tried. I even used a rechargeable reversible screwdriver fitted with a drill bit to remove all the tobacco that had been shoved in like a trash compactor so I could choose my own content. But more on that later.
In response to some aforeseeable malicious flack and in anticipation of a pending Webbie Award, I do not now and have never harboured any prejudice against deranged strippers on crack -- bless their sweet hearts.
Crack is a godsend. And I'm an atheist.
Never inhaled, but trust me, I almost saw God.
And God said, Let There Be Crack.
So why can't people just live with God's Edict and move on? Pass the spoon, the bowl, the Zippo.
Cigar Afficionado is my second favourite magazine, right next to my subscriptions to High Times, Grapevine Magazine, and my honourary copy of my weekly middle school newspaper.
Yes, I was an editor, and frequently re-edited unsatisfactory submissions from a lot of wannabes who wanted to see their names in bold faced print before there was an internet or any reason to be famous beyond your own circle of (probably) moronic friends.
I knew way back in 1984 that Denzel and Blair and Spike were black (!). Did the tabloids pick that up then? What were they hiding, and why were they trying to hide it?
I knew back in 1985 that cocaine might be becoming a promblem in Hollywood and -worse- beyond. Who was dissing drug use then? Not the Daily News. Not Variety. Not Der Speigel. Not Pravda. Not even my own damn middle school newspaper, where crack had undoubtedly hid hardest.
Again, I shant name names, but being a four year old [specific fields redacted] prodigy among a class of smartass public school 6,7,8,9th graders sometimes made me want to join the fun, or at the very least, document theirs.
Since I don't watch television, I was understandably somewhat disturbed to learn of the glassy-eyed-boob-tubed effort of others to follow my unyet chosen path toward important anonymity.
Naming names bores me, especially the ones I don't remember. I would much rather discuss why this wine is better than that wine or this psychedelic mushroom was cooler than that one, or why your kids are so great too (even though mine are better than yours). I definitely am looking for someone to re-create Hawaii or the Bikini Islands inside my 12 square foot patio slash backyard, complete with taro patch, Sizzler, Hooters, foot massage parlor, tidal wave machine, golf course, desalinization pant, seismometer, oil well, strip club (and strip mall), target range, snake charmer, boutique shop, and well-fed Maori bouncer. Bottom line, I want Guam in my own backyard. Perhaps later we can discuss franchising pizzerias or importing sexy Filipina bricklayers.
Applications welcome.
I quit smoking unfiltered Camels years ago when I realised that it was too hard to separate the menthol from the Real Thing. Trust me, I tried. I even used a rechargeable reversible screwdriver fitted with a drill bit to remove all the tobacco that had been shoved in like a trash compactor so I could choose my own content. But more on that later.
In response to some aforeseeable malicious flack and in anticipation of a pending Webbie Award, I do not now and have never harboured any prejudice against deranged strippers on crack -- bless their sweet hearts.
Crack is a godsend. And I'm an atheist.
Never inhaled, but trust me, I almost saw God.
And God said, Let There Be Crack.
So why can't people just live with God's Edict and move on? Pass the spoon, the bowl, the Zippo.
Cigar Afficionado is my second favourite magazine, right next to my subscriptions to High Times, Grapevine Magazine, and my honourary copy of my weekly middle school newspaper.
Yes, I was an editor, and frequently re-edited unsatisfactory submissions from a lot of wannabes who wanted to see their names in bold faced print before there was an internet or any reason to be famous beyond your own circle of (probably) moronic friends.
I knew way back in 1984 that Denzel and Blair and Spike were black (!). Did the tabloids pick that up then? What were they hiding, and why were they trying to hide it?
I knew back in 1985 that cocaine might be becoming a promblem in Hollywood and -worse- beyond. Who was dissing drug use then? Not the Daily News. Not Variety. Not Der Speigel. Not Pravda. Not even my own damn middle school newspaper, where crack had undoubtedly hid hardest.
Again, I shant name names, but being a four year old [specific fields redacted] prodigy among a class of smartass public school 6,7,8,9th graders sometimes made me want to join the fun, or at the very least, document theirs.
Since I don't watch television, I was understandably somewhat disturbed to learn of the glassy-eyed-boob-tubed effort of others to follow my unyet chosen path toward important anonymity.
Naming names bores me, especially the ones I don't remember. I would much rather discuss why this wine is better than that wine or this psychedelic mushroom was cooler than that one, or why your kids are so great too (even though mine are better than yours). I definitely am looking for someone to re-create Hawaii or the Bikini Islands inside my 12 square foot patio slash backyard, complete with taro patch, Sizzler, Hooters, foot massage parlor, tidal wave machine, golf course, desalinization pant, seismometer, oil well, strip club (and strip mall), target range, snake charmer, boutique shop, and well-fed Maori bouncer. Bottom line, I want Guam in my own backyard. Perhaps later we can discuss franchising pizzerias or importing sexy Filipina bricklayers.
Applications welcome.
posted by Opal Mehta at 10:33 PM
1 comments
