In Which We Discover That Our Suspicions Were Correct: It Was All a Big Fucking Joke! ++ PLUS++ For Happier Mondays, Think Pink!!

alt-big joke
Sanders at the UN?  Hillary for Prez?  Toss a coin, try some Pizza Bianca Monica and… pull the other one, it’s got bells on!


Exclusive Story by Glossolalia-Jeezus “Real” McCoy, Girl Reportress
“All the news that gives you fits, in print!”™

May 8th, 2017

The world is heaving a sigh and chortling itself sick

as it absorbs the events of the past few days, during which it was accidentally revealed that the whole “Trump thing”  was exactly as most people had suspected—an elaborate joke of vast proportions.

As the scope of the scampy subterfuge unfolds, it’s apparent that absolutely everyone was in on it, starting of course, with Trump himself.  It was The Donald, that li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal, who burst the bubble with one of his quasi-adorable slips.

Speaking to Australian Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull,  Trump opined:

Right now, Obamacare is failing. I shouldn’t say this to our great gentleman and my friend from Australia, because you have better health care than we do —

Oopsies!!!  And this only moments after the Republican-controlled House voted to dismantle Obamacare, the better-than-nothing sorta-healthcare kinda-system which had brought almost-affordable though short-of-satisfactory protection to millions of America’s uninsured, or so those scallywags had convinced themselves.

The cat was out of the bag, the ball was rolling and who knew if the fun would ever stop as Trump, clearly unable to contain his delight, began—to use a theatrical term—”corpsing”, or breaking down with nervous, uncontrollable laughter: a weirdly appropriate term considering the circumstances.

This quickly triggered his Australian counterpart, who seemed to appreciate the delicious irony—heck, let’s give the man his due—the lunacy to rival the Marx Brothers’ best, of Trump praising single-payer, tax-funded health care.  Pull the other one, it’s got bells on!

” ‘Course it’s all a big joke!” Donald admitted when we called him after his Turnbull photo-op for an explanation. “Oh, my ribs and death panels! Are you guys retarded or what? Lemme – oh god – lemme catch my breath here…!”

He continued, “It’s a joke, just as sure as I’m a Ph.D. Magna Cum Laude in Mediaeval English Literature! And I am! Princeton, Class of ’82!  Would you care to read my ground-breaking dissertation on the uses of proto-feminist iconography in Chaucer?

“The Times Literary Supplement called it a page-turner that not only rivals Moby Dick—it surpasses it on every page in scope and ambition!  Not bad for a poor farm kid from Nebraska, right, Vlad?”

“Da!  Da, baby!”  Even by phone it was unmistakably Vlad Putin, butmellow ?

“Listen,”  Putin continued, “Cuddles now going, yes? I makink fresh blinis and any minute Liza’s comink over, she is then teaching me Fosse neck, jazzing hands and something pikantnye with a chair. This Leessa! She is introducing me always charming homosexuals whom I love every day more!”

Putin a sultry romantic with a newly-awakened taste for well-aged trouser snake and the occasional gay icon?  That bad boy routine was all a big blustering charade after all!

Intrigued as all get-out, we turned next to the redoubtable* Bernie Sanders. We’d already experienced our beloved Nutty Professor on CNN as he turned his signature beet-red and threatened Trump with “holding him” to his comments on healthcare.  What did our trouble-haired also-ran have to say for himself?  Did he realize the scope of the deception?

Sanders confessed, “Yep, it’s true—Hillary, Cuddles and I—oh, Cuddles? That’s what we call Donald—yep, we’ve been planning this little escapade since 1980! We never thought you’d buy that I was presidential material!

“C’mon dudes!  Socks with sandals, dandruff on my corduroy jacket lapels and that vague but persistent urine-y old-guy smell—Seriously?  And talk about age!  Christ Almighty, never mind the nuclear codes, I’m lucky if I make it to next Tuesday!!

“I’m just sorry we didn’t get to do that prank—you know, when I kit up in a Mao suit, address the General Assembly of the United Nations and then halfway through I unwrap a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich because ‘my blood sugar is low’, then lecture them on five-year planning!  Man, I wish I coulda taken a run at that one, just to have seen their faces!”

Wiping the tears of hilarity from his cheeks, he added, “Do you think I’ll be able to get a refund for these Birkenstocks?  The fuckers are killing my feet!  No wonder the Krauts won World War II!”

Our final port of call in our exposé of Washington wacky dust was the Clintons’ palatial estate in upstate New York, where it appeared that an enormous “come bare as you dare party” was winding down.

“Y’all come on in to the Yellow Drawing Room”, said Hillary in her characteristic Arkansas drawl as she opened the front door.  The former Miss World and college-drop-out-made-good, her hair damp and slicked back, her voluptuous curves barely masked by a Martha Stewart bath sheet, waved us in with a welcoming gesture.

“This ol’ cluster-fuck’s been going on since the election”, she said with an endearing giggle as she padded bare-foot across the parquet. “Or rather, the ol’ coin-toss.

“You see”, she explained, “we decided the winner by tossing a quarter, best two-outta-three, and whaddaya know, it was Cuddles!  Then it’s just a question of makin’ sure the press gets sent the right results.  You get mah drift?

“Frankly, I was relieved!  I gotta whole bunch of new pizza franchisees opening next week and I’m workin round the clock on product development —that’s right!  It’s always been mah dream to bake! Y’all try this lil ol’ sample now—”

Clinton held out a plate piled high with various silver-dollar-sized nosh.  I chose one at random—was that mozzarella?—and popped it into my mouth.  “It’s delicious, what’s with the funky smell?”

“Shhhh!  Top Secret!  It’s the Pizza Bianca Monica—all white, but boy does it leave nasty stain on your shirt!  Damn!

“Anyways, what with the tension of keeping this whole surprahz under wraps, we’ve all been a bit frazzled, y’all know how it is. So Billy and I decided to call in a few favors, if you get my drift and just – ”

We were interrupted by the appearance of James Comey and Paul Ryan, both wearing nothing but a light beading of sweat, who without so much as a by-your-leave whisked Clinton away to what they called the “Interactive Discussion Room”, apparently located somewhere in the upper floors –  traditionally forbidden to the press.

“Hey!” Clinton shouted back to us as Ryan and Comey carried her up the celebrated circular staircase. “These boys tell me it’s tahm for mah double-teamin’!  Woo-hoo!!  Hey, y’all know how to shoot me up?  We’ve got just the best crystal in from Palm Springs—and it’s makin’ me me feel sooooo—reckless —!”

Looking crazed and dishevelled, Bill Clinton and his playmate Ivanka—having finished at least the first round of discussions by the fireplace—and chortling fit to bust, scampered up the stairs behind them.

But Hillary – was it possible?- had one more surprise under her bath-sheet.  Bless her ol’ cotton socks!

“You know about Billy?— Whaddaya think honey, shall I break it to them? Shall I?

“Well, y’all finally maht as well know—Billy, he’s mah cousin, right?!  You betcha!  Old Arkansas tradition!!”   And with a final guffaw, they were gone, leaving us standing speechless in the foyer.

Laugh?  Laugh??!!

We nearly died.


With reporting from Glossolalia-Jeezus “Real” McCoy, girl journalist.

— AP / Reuters  ©2017

UP NEXT: “Barry” Obama takes up smoking.  That li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal.

And speaking of Helen Keller,



But especially:

To the women everywhere–

Banish the black! burn the blue ! and bury the beige! – from now on ….

Think Pink!
Think Pink when you shop for summer clothes –

Think Pink!
Think Pink when you want that “quelque chose”!

The redoubtable* Kay Thompson, who oughta be inducted into the Homo Hall of Fame as an honorary gay man, was Judy Garland’s vocal coach, which tells you a lot, and, when not flailing her arms about while talking and calling it “cabaret singing”, also wrote a series of children’s books called “Eloïse”, about a little girl who lives at the Plaza Hotel in New York.

Yep, the Plaza Hotel. From these humble beginnings, Eloïse sallies forth to have Pirate Adventures, among others, though we must forever regret that Thompson shuffled off this mortal coil before updating us with “Eloïse Gets Shtupped While Unconscious At Studio 54″.

The opening musical number of Funny Face, “Think Pink”, features Ms Thompson, plus her swirly-skirted minions—who for reasons never explained speak in unison, like borg—and a virtual steam room’s worth of  butch-dancin’, Bronx-talkin’ “we’re not gay, no way!!” male dancers dressed in overalls.

Please, I beg you, before watching, turn out the lights, put down your Bayeux tapestry restoration work and resolve to give this gem your full attention. For this is not just another musical number, oh no.

This is one of the supreme camp moments in cinema. It is the Sistine Chapel ceiling, it is the Cellini “Perseus Holding the Severed Head of Medusa” of camp.  Often imitated, usually by me around 3AM when I think everyone’s left, but rarely equalled

except by the crack-addled ad minions of the late Eatons department store who, in their desperation for another ball of hard, not to mention their jobs, churned out an eye-popping parody, “Aubergine”, a paean to the Pantone© spot color used in the soon-to-be-dead-as-a-beaver-tail Eatons branding.

And I have the dinner plates to prove it.

Kay Thompson, casually, you know. Lounging. On her bed. The way we all do.

*redoubtable:  If anyone is aware of the meaning of this word, which just kinda sounded good at the time, please contact the News Desk. —G.-J. “R.” M.

All About the Eve of Destruction +PLUS+ Finally: The Gay Agenda so REVEALED to make your jaw!?? drop!?!???!! UNBELIEVABLE??!! (with half-hearted extra special bonus Gay Porn Titles of the Week)

So many roommates… so little time…

Tick tock tick tock  Time goes by… so slowly…  

except when it accelerates, like the last weekend of summer scudding into the chilly shadows of responsibility and consequences. I face the dark-suited members of the Rent Tribunal on Monday at noon. For the little matter of my

being late with the rent for four months.  In a row.

Lest you think this is serious, let me bray with defiant laughter as I tell you about the 10 years previous that I was NOT late with the rent, and do they count for nothing?  Am I only as good as my last performance?

Let me tell you about every month paid up within the month, and if that doesn’t herald the advent of pull-up pants and a Beatrix Potter training spoon, what does?

Let me enlighten you about a shadowy global conspiracy: a secret underground organization dedicated to the provisioning of bad roommates, that allegorical repletion of vapid millennials who stand, like the self-styled “Phoebe” in the last shot of All About Eve, smirking the smirk of the damned as they clutch the object of their desire: my now-turned-brass-monkey balls, rendered cold and sterile as a witch’s twat.

Scene:  The final smirking Phoebe struts offstage, having effected my spiritual collapse, but I manage to lift my aging goomer* head, as always, to croak:


Oi ve voy.  Next is Mr. March, who goes mid-month to visit grandma’s house, tra-la, tra-lay, and is eaten by a wolf.

I’m just guessing about the wolf, but his cheery goodbye is the last I see of him.  He doesn’t return with the April rent, he doesn’t answer the phone,  and when I message him online the message is immediately marked “read”, which I immediately understand as meaning:  “read by his captors”.  He’s vanished. Is he abducted? Intervened? Amnesiac? Done in? Do I care anymore?  Next!

The next, current iffy choice gets arrested before moving in, which leads me to take on his iffy one-night-stand girlfriend as roomie – anyone, darling, anyone will do! – only, miracle of miracles, the current one turns up again, released on bail!   It’s rainin’ iffy roomies!

Too bad I wrote to the welfare office to cancel his funding!  Does it get any better?  You bet it does!  To wit:-

I was snarky with my friend.  I told my snark, my friend did end. Oops!

Cast your memory back, if you will, to the night before my appearance at Estreat Court, a mediaeval label for a joyless public shaming which currently does not involve entrails and a wheel, but rather a sharp slap on the wrist from Your Honor for my failure to hunt down my other friend—for I have learned to rotate them so as not to wear them out so quickly—and frog-march him to 51 Division.  I imagine holding my torch triumphantly aloft as I do so, like one of the villagers in Frankenstein.

My hapless friend, for whom I was surety, broke on a July Friday the promises he made to Her Majesty forty-eight hours before, leaving me holding the bag of hapless.  He’s just been released after serving his sentence, which tells me that four months at large plus a whole cartload of drugs in your possession yields thirteen months in captivity for lack of stick-to-it-tivity, it’s right there in the Charter!

This is my failure, what I could not imagine, try as I might:  “Halt, vile absconder! Peace Officer Roddis commands you to accompany him forthwith to the common gaol!”  Elmer Fudd, in drag, could issue this order with more red-meated authority than I.

But I digress.  That fateful night before my estreation – a word I just made up – I call out my other friend – that’s friend number 1, if you’re keeping track, and you really should – on some supremely prissy judgements he’s making about surety friend (#2).  I get, in Dorothy Parker’s words, the frankies.

I am frank with him.  High as a kite frank.  Snarky frank.

I snark at him via text, “Are you by any chance turning into one of those Tut, tut – aren’t I wonderful tut tut aren’t they a loser sanctimonious bores?  Because it sure sounds like it.” It starts there and builds to delirious, Wagnerian levels.

I’m on a roll. I tell them in no uncertain terms and I lay down the law, then for extra measure I give them a piece of my mind.  I hesitate, drawing my snark warmly about me—then press “Send”.

Immediately I regret it.   I work through the night, feeling vaguely nauseated about my toxic SMS and ponder my obnoxious sense of humor. Maybe I should have added an “LOL”? Maybe a couple?

At the proper time, I don my estreating clothes and head to court.

It is during our court break time from being estreated when I get a text from snarked friend conveying his offense at my snark and announcing, as drama queens do, be they gay or str8, his intent to block my number.

Block my number!?  Holy Facebook, it’s Mean Girls, but – with boys!  What will they think of next?  Flavor drops for water?

Turns out he’s been holding a grudge for two years about the time I snapped at him while he was stripping some paint in my dining room.  Two years!  I manage an apology, the one that sounds sincere on a good day, but snark friend telephonically storms off in a sanctimonious huff for, in the end, it’s str8 dudes who are the sensitive ones, not us tough-as-nuts gays.  Lordy, no!

So, two years ago I snapped and said something cunty. “WhatEVERRRRR!” I think, in tune with the Mean Girls vibe. Who will cut me a great big bleeding side of slack? Not he!

But how will he survive without my Sunday psychotherapy as he upgrades his fifth simultaneous house, texting me hysterically to complain: “We dropped the chandelier while installing it.  Now we’re going to have to have a crystal specially made!”

OK, fine, WhatEVERRRRR. Block my number, honorary Heather-cum-Holly-Golightly! Off you go lightly, back to your bitch mistresses, at least the ones who are female.

Here, take your pick, old pal:  Lie in the bony death-clutch of the shrieking crack-banshee from hell, or loll in the dull-as-ditchwater snuffle of your tediously faithful high-school sweetheart as you sing the Sesame Street Songbook.

For whoever the fuck it may be this week who tells you “come to Momma”, they can’t prevent me blowing, in your general direction, what may sound like a kiss.


My verdict from Estreat Court:  Her Majesty commands me forthwith to top up her already bulging coffers with fifty bucks, not five hundred.  No good deed goes unpunished, but Her Majesty knows a really good deed when she sees one, and punishes me just enough.


Apart from all that, pretty  uneventful.  Maybe I should get friend number two to move in with the guy on bail?

Yes, no?

You remember that “Gay Agenda” the right is always on about?

Well, I found this week’s update. It’s even worse than you thought…. Blessed Judy, Mother Of Liza, pray for us now and at the hour when we attempt “reverse cowgirl”.

You can see the original mind map here:



  • Hot House Hot Doctor Buttfucked by Aussie
  • IconMale Jerk off session interrupted by Hunk
  • Sleazy Raw Butt-Sex Bender for Popperbators
  • Tied up Tickled and Jerked 2
  • Polar Bear Interacially Barebacked after BJ
  • Pool party turns into a hot black gay gangbang
  • Bathroom make Hard Dick
  • Jocks Fuck BB CUMPIE
  • Use him to Fuck and Blow each other

and the winner, considering its positively Grace Kelly-ish restraint, is:

Ice Skating Bitch

I’ll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places.

* goomer:  a gay baby-boomer.  You’re welcome.

Err, oops. Aaaarghh! HUH? Kind of thing: An Intermezzo.

“Just Go Friggin’ Shoot Yourself! : Mastering the Art of the Selfie in These Troubled Times”, by guest blogger David DelaRoddis +PLUS+ Facebook Life Event #592: Sensual Discovery.


While I continue with my training for the lung cancer olympics and practise landlord-lifting for my imminent rent tribunal battle—Oh, baby, I know from living—I continue to hone my incomparable skills in the art of The Fob that Offs You.

To this end, distracting you as with a cheap, shiny object, I have invited world-renowned Canadian photographer, author, pundit and irrepressible adulte terrible David DeLaRoddis to guest blog for me.

Let me pause for a moment while you let that sink in.

DelaRoddis, you will recallkllllll;’;’ pe]]]

rekwo[dlkalsds\;jlk;sdlkd kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

Sorry!  Nodded off!  LOL!!!

Anywho, DelaRoddis, you will recall, is author of the of New York Times #1 Best-Seller, “Photography is Friggin’ Hard Unless Of Course You’re Me™”, and its soon-to-be-published, sure-contender-for-New-York-Times-#1-Best-Seller sequel, “Gee, Willikers But Photography Is Hard! Don’t You Wish You Were Me? HA HA!  I Thought So! But You’re Not!!???™“.

Best known for his shameless self-promotion and unrelenting 24/7 visibility, DelaRoddis has ruffled more than a few fine feathers with his controversial opinions on contemporary photography.

On Cindy Sherman:

Oh puh-leeease!  Any loser can roll out of bed, kit up like Nancy Reagan and lie in a pile of vomit, but without a forty-thousand dollar Hasselblad body with digital back and a ten thousand dollar 85mm Zeiss lens, you might as well drink your Blix bath!  Cindy, darling, enough with the cant already! Your Kodak® Instamatic® awaits!

On Nan Goldin:

 Well, far be it from me to spoil the illusion.  But honestly, that needy bitch PAID me to smack her in the eyes with her Louboutin pumps so she could stop taking pictures of squirrels in the Champs Élysées and cash in on the whole “women’s lib” flash-in-the-pan.  Look for her operating the passport photo concession at your local Walgreen’s, if she ever figures out which way to point the lens. Unbelievable???!!!!

On photography:

Photography is hard!  Friggin’ hard!  Unless you’re me!  Just ask Joe McNally about that little incident involving a certain world-renowned Canadian photographer wearing a frayed security harness, a certain person’s less-than-firm grip on someone’s ankle and the observation deck of the Empire State Building!  Joe, baby, you are so friggin’ busted!

On fame: 

World-renowned Canadian?  Oh, honey!  Just consign me to oblivion and be done with it!

So you see.

And now, without further ado, here is David DeLaRoddis to present his horribly-expensive-and-only-necessary-because-you’re-too-retarded-to-realize-you-have-zero-talent workshop: “Just Go Friggin’ Shoot Yourself! : Mastering the Art of the Selfie in these Troubled Times”.

DeLaRoddis:  Thanks, Dave!  You know, with its heady combination of crude exhibitionism and technical incompetence, the selfie is the quintessential art form of the Internet age.

Today’s tip:  Create a little mystery!  Take a look at these two examples I knocked off during the limousine ride here:

CREATIVITY !!!?????!!!!

Example #1

Check. It. Out!

I know what you’re thinking: This screams “creativity” so friggin’ loud you can hear it all the way to Des Moines!

Fun Factz:  Think different! Everyone and their cockapoo photographs eyes, lips and cheeks—but you know better!  You know Photography is Hard!  LO-friggin’-L!

I promise once you learn to think bridge of nose and upload this baby to Facebook, you might as well quit your day job so you can sit by your land line telephone all day waiting for National Geographic to call.

When to use:  Try using this baby as your profile photo on Grindr!  It’s a no-brainer choice to complement your kinky profile fantasies about bad cops, public nudity and extreme anal penetration with objects, and take it from me—if you remember to stay logged in while clearing U.S. Customs, you’re well on your way to making at least two of those come true!

How To Get The Shot:  Using your most grating, petulant tone, order one of your resentful assistants to autofocus on the moist, red bit where your cheap Shopper’s Drug Mart reading specs bite into your tear ducts, then do a big snort of blow.

You heard it first here!

A really fun groovy-artistic fun shot !  Fun!

Example # 2 uses that “Rule of Thirds” you’ve heard about to create its magical mystery:

Just spend one-third of your income on camera equipment, then read one-third of the manual—which means you will be forever whining, “Can anyone tell me what this little doohickey is for?”

And of course, miss one-third of your loan payments on the Hasselblad body and Zeiss lens, leaving them repossessed and you posting “really fun and groovy-artistic” shots with your fake vintage Lomo then ruining them with High Dynamic Range filters.

HDR???  Oh, honey! Excuse the tears pouring down my face as I point at the monitor and laugh!

HDR guarantees your portrait sitters will look like they’ve been thirty years coal-mining, and your landscapes like rejects from a velvet painting correspondence course, but never you mind.

Those animated GIF awards from the “Really Fun!! and Awesommmme!!?!?! Fun Shots Unless They’re Better Than  Mine In Which Case You Are, Like, So Totally Banned??!!” group on Flickr will assuage your heartache at the death in darkness of your pathetic career goals.

I mean, I’m sorry to make you cry and I could probably soften the blow.

On the other hand, Movin’. On!

Technical details: Nerd alert!  Forty-thousand dollar Hasselblad body and digital back; ten-thousand dollar Zeiss 85mm prime lens @ f64; one partied-up crew of unpaid interns; and one limo driver named Wally who can’t keep his hands off me.

But don’t worry, petals.  You can do just as well with iPhone.

HA HA! Kidding!  I love you guys!



Facebook Life Event #592:  Sensual Discovery

Today, as I was making lunch, I dropped a 2-lb (907 g) tub of President’s Choice Blue Ribbon margarine on the floor. As I started to clean it up, the phone rang.  As usual I had to race around the apartment to find the phone, finally locating it in the bedroom.

After I finished the call, I worked in Photoshop for a couple of hours, then headed to the kitchen for a snack (Earl Grey tea; chocolate chip cookie).

As I entered the kitchen, I stepped right into the pile of margarine, which I had completely forgotten about.

The soft, cool squish of the margarine around my toes was surprisingly sensual.


Fluffy’s Facebook Fob-Off: More than a month of miscellaneous mish-mash +PLUS+ Naked! Greed!

with guest blogger “Fluffy”~

Hey, sup dudes. This is Fluffy, a.k.a. Ruler of My World! Ace Blogger! Night Wailer! and Eater of Small, Tasty, Furry Things!

Alright, not so much eat, more “gnaw their legs off and then give them to you as a gift.” Whatever.  Jeez, stop screaming!  And so much for the epithetical part of this guest blogging 17474614_1819852408337353_1670149840_nsession.


So Big Human Cat with the Weird Smell has “tasked” me with blogging while he does something that sounded like “lie in a dark room with his head covered by a damp bedsheet until his life gets better”.

I’m not sure I totally understood the concept of “life gets better”.

I mean, you sleep. You get up. You  stretch. You get fed. You get stroked. You stretch.

Kind of thing.

Occasionally you do the ingratiating, arched-back, rub-against-his-leg doo-dad, and I like to up-sell this one with the optional purr, preferably #48: low-and-sultry.  But—not so much that he starts to depend on it.

This is the expectations management portion of the gig, dudes!

You get fed.  You get stroked.  You purr, you stretch.  He lets you out. Idiot!  He lets you in.

Occasionally you get some pussy. But always somehow right on cue.

What’s to get better?

I mean, true, he never learned to meow properly. And he sleeps maybe 10, 14 hours a day. That’s not nearly enough!  I’ve never seen him gnaw the legs off anyone, like where are the simple pleasures?

Maybe better means he won’t have water running down his face all the time.  I hope so! Freaks me out, dude!  Fix the friggin’ leak in your face!

Oh….Oh wait… Ohhh  yes…..


Meow, meow.

OK, so first off I have to write a sonnet, CHECK, then Big Human Cat with the Weird Smell suggested I take some of his Facebook posts and “fog you off”?

Fog?  Did I get that right?

The fog comes in on little cat feet. Did you know that?





You know, cute cats invented the Internet. It’s true. With enough propagation of enough flickery cat pics, we will never die.


We’ll never die!  But you guys will!  Yummmmm!   Purrrrrrrr….

—Fluffy of Cabbagetown,
Ruler of My World.

Fluffy’s Sonnet,
followed by the fobbing-off.
Thank you.

“ … Off-fob us, then, with words of rare delight,
Full-honeyed, toasted, served,
like the suggestion,
To thou, O big-racked Muses.

And no question
That we shall cry
Throughout the blasted night:
“Off-fobbèd thus we be with lame excuses …! ”

—Christopher Marlowe,
“The Old Off-Fobber“,
from “The T is silent, as in Marlowe: Gratefully Forgotten Sonnets, Vol. 73”

The fobbing off:

Feb 28/17
Just who was it who invented the password system whereby you must:

—come up with a unique combination of at least 8 characters, including UC and lc, plus a couple of ancient Sumerian glyphs, which combination you will forever be prevented from using again


—with the keyboard bravura of Vladimir Ashkenazy and the can-do attitude of Little Orphan Annie, type the whole thing BLIND as black dots – TWICE?

Because when I find out who it is, trust me when I say there is going to be a “conversation“.

Feb 15/07
Social media ate my brain this morning. And it wasn’t much to begin with:  Just an amuse-gueules, really, daubs of poached brain, collapsed in a pool of confusion reduction on a vast white plate…

Feb 08/17
WOULD the person who keeps MOVING all the keys on my computer please DKT_P?

Jan 23/17
I wonder, if Donald orders a hooker, does that make her a strumpet?

Jan 28/17
Speaking of Helen Keller,  last time she dropped by I couldn’t help noticing how the left side of her face was marked with an angry, red grid and covered with maple syrup.

Apparently she got confused and answered the waffle iron. Seriously.

Jan 8/17
Yep.  A stampede of feral bunnies.  What is it you must never, ever forget about how [- – – -] I am to you?

Jan 1/17
I did this weird thing last night.

I turned out all the lights, and went to bed.

Bed, with bedclothes that you slip under and
pull over. And then I slept from around midnight until 9 AM.

I don’t necessarily recommend it.

Jan 7/17
Read this story about a scientist who made yogurt using her vaginal flora.   And some folks were disgusted, but not me.

I admire anyone who can “think outside the box”.

If a tree falls in the forest, let’s hope Donald’s underneath it.

Making two-ingredient pancakes the same way I make my two-ingredient relationships: with Love and Incompetence.

October/16 just rejected my [photographic art] work.

“We have decided not to show your work.”

Not just “sell your work.” SHOW your work. That seemed unduly blunt, like they couldn’t be responsible for what might happen if someone saw it.

I can’t understand it. I paid the five bucks and everything! But I guess if everyone liked my work, I’d be worried.

What am I saying??? If everyone liked my work, I’d be rich! And I’m not so totally conflicted about “rich” as I may have led you to believe.

This is the problem with needing constant validation. Where the fuck did I leave my “internal locus of control”? And for that matter, my house keys?

They’re both supposed to hang on that nail I punched into the soft bit in the wall using the heel of my boot, the disintegrating, mildewed stoma which is probably where the roaches and the mice find their way in so they can dance their mad tarantella of delight on my crushed, beaten-down soul.

But never fear. I’ll be back when I’ve figured out how to leverage this disaster by deploying my incomparable skills in emotional manipulation, thus playing, as Isaac Stern might a priceless Stradivarius, on your tendency to get all nurturing and shield me from life’s harsh-yet-somehow-still-heartwarming little set-backs.

OK, then. Later, dudes. I’m going to make some lentil soup with my last onion.


Naked! Greed!

If you like my writing—to be clear, “like” can include anything from “usually forget that it exists and please stop reminding me”, to “I’ll read it if you pay me to”—then why not consider sending me money each month through a recurring charge that you will forget about until you examine your VISA bill so I can sit around all day and do nothing?  

HOW THIS WORKS: Send me money and I’ll start doing nothing immediately. That’s right! No tedious waiting for me to do diddley-squat!  ALL nothing, ALL the time, guaranteed.  

Like, fuck all.

So please send me money, and if you decided against it, don’t get upset. I will understand.  



P.S. But please reconsider and, like, send the money.

† Image by Gunkarta - Own work, 
CC BY-SA 3.0,