So my old nemesis William McKeen wrote up some nice shit about me on his internet today, helping pimp out a book published four years ago:
Nobody cares about it anymore, not that they ever really did, but now that McKeen has stuck me in a bucket with some yahoo named "Lance Carbuncle" I can only expect my fortunes to dramatically revise themselves. Yes, I loom forward to the coming day when I can return home and enjoy a tidy house, the respect of my gal and stepdaughter, and various orifices attached to the teenage Filipino gymnast I lured over to this country with money and lies. Right now he's duct-taped good 'n' tight and sitting in the bathtub, marinating in my own blend of balsamic vinegar, herbs, honey and... Hey! Did I just write "loom forward?" I think I meant "look forward." Shit. Well, I guess I am kind of looming forward most of the time anyway.
McKeen, by the way, wrote a few books himself, including a very well received biography of journalist Hunter Thompson. Little known fact about McKeen — he also ghosted sizable portions of the popular memoir Mein Kampf. (He later explained to the Jews how it was youthful indiscretion, and he needed the money for his dope habit, so don't get your dreidel in a knot over it or anything.)
What else? Well, I haven't written anything here since April, and it's not just because all that looming sucks up my free time. It's because I live with two women, and they're fucking mad at me, so fucking mad, all the time. And all I ever do is pick up after them and tell them they're pretty and buy them shit, like electricity and food and clothes and emeralds and rubies, and yeah I might ameliorate their furies for about five seconds with a nice big fat ol' ruby but then it's right back to cascading sheets of napalm menses and constant "accidental" shots to the nuts. It's difficult — pesky and inquisitive police officers look down on attacking women and teenage girls with a tree branch while crying and stripping down to your underwear, so my only source of defense is hampered, and I just don't want to tempt their wrath by making fun of them out here ye olde electronical town square.
Something happened this weekend, though. I hit some sort of critical give-a-shit mass. It's been a year, and I reckon I've got enough scar tissue and flab now to buttress my vitals against the onslaught of menses. And, fuck, it's not like I'm using my nuts for anything important. I'm going to post this up and see what happens. What's the worst-case scenario? I'm already cowering and shivering on a dirty blanket in the "man room," the one place in the house I have about three square feet of autonomy. I guess they could smash my Conan the Barbarian soundtrack or cut my Filipino loose, but sooner or later Pablo's going to have to learn how to get by on his own. You know?