Mush

I apologize for my lack of posting over the past couple days. As it turns out, I am out of town. Sunday after the Super Bowl, I wigged out a little. After a couple hours on seniorpeoplemeet.com, I had no choice but to see if Agnes was as good as her profile indicated. Jester has always been under the assumption that I'm training for the Iditarod, so I rounded up a few Malamutes, and headed to Columbus with a case of Activia and a bottle of pineapple brandy. Things were looking pretty good. I was hoping she was as generous a lover as she was a grandmother to Cody and Emma.

Turns out Agnes was about 15 years older and 30 pounds skinnier than what she said on her profile, and it is damn near impossible to tell if she is, in fact, a natural red head. I hope she made it back all right from Thurman's after I stole her Segway.

As you know, my goal with most of my writing is to force America to become comfortable with skull fucking. Thus, I'm now just hanging out alone in my room at the Super 8, blaring The Smiths while I work on my screenplay for my live-action, NC-17 version of The Snorks. Don't you think Wilfred Brimley would be a perfect Wellington Jr. Wetworth? And that Pink would be a perfect Casey Kelp -- you know, because she's pink? So do I, although the snorkel raping scene is taking a while to get just right. The dialogue is still to jokey.

The kicker about being away is that I have most of a killer Tuesday Top Ten about The White Stripes written on bond paper at home. Expect to see a digital version on Thursday. Jester, I'll be home tomorrow. I have no idea what's wrong with me.