Are You There, Jebus-O'Toole-Faulkner? It's Me...Mmmooom? What's My Name Again?

Sherif Ali: What are you looking for?
T.E. Lawrence: Some way to announce myself.
Sherif Ali: Be patient with him, God.



Since I have such difficulty with my memory these daze, barely able to recall my own first name (but I'm pretty sure Mom's wrong—I don't recall even my full name running that long), I'm going to refer to you, my true golden-god, by alternating designations. You are, after all, a triumvirate, just as their Capital-G God is: the father, son and the holy spirit. Ghost? Depends on the house of worship. He's got a jazillion names beyond that: Yahweh, Yahoo (moniker specific to the tent-revival peeps), Lord, Dad (familial term specific to...well, him, but in his son's form. Also, specific to some humans "touched" by his finger who think they are him - or him, but in his son's form. See: David Koresh, Manson—or did Charlie state he wasn't Capital-G God? Well, the idea's been got).

Anywho, that's how I'd like to play this prayer: I'll dial out to Jebus, another holla' made to Saint Peter O'GoddamnToole, and a shout-out to Ol' Billy-Boy. Cool? I knew it would be. You're always cool with me. Because, well, you are me. That is so cool. Since we're on the topic of cool, let's jump on the....


O' Great And Powerful Peter O'Toole: Are you immortal? I often wonder this. You are, after all, 877.11 years-old. Well, you look that old. You're actually 77.11 years-old, but looking upon you in your current state, especially
when I juxtapose your current visage with photos of your younger face...........
chiseled lines..............
golden locks......................
sucha' lean, mean fightin' machine........................

I'm sorry — what?

Is it wrong that I want to have sexual relations with Lawrence of Arabia-era you, Saint Peter O'Toole? Even Noel Coward told you, "If you'd been any prettier, it would have been Florence of Arabia." No? It's not wrong? Really?! See. See? This is why you are so. damn. cool. Truthfully, sex with you is sex with me, not to mention the unmentionable: it's STD-free!


Anyway, when comparing the two yous, when I'm finally capable of detaching my longing Lawrence look to that of you as now, the cliché "That man is older than Capital-G God!" comes to mind. So does the image of an extremely bloated bullfrog. I am truly sorry for thinking such sinful, yucky thoughts about you, O' Great And Powerful O'Toole. Do you forgive me? You do?! See. See? This is why you are so. damn. cool. Fuck the Academy. I'll steal you a real goddamn Oscar - none of this "Lifetime Achievement Award" bullshit! I'll pry a statuette from Heston's cold. dead. hands.... "Moses." Psshhht! What did that staff-wielding asshat know about Moses?

Auda abu Tayi: You will cross Sinai?
T.E. Lawrence: Moses did!
Auda abu Tayi: And you will take the children?
T.E. Lawrence: Moses did!

Two years! TWO. YEARS. That's how long you worked on Arabia, sand all up in your gorgeous grill, that blasting sun tanning your golden skin into leather, the HEAT - okay, so it's a dry heat but THE HEAT! And, may I repeat:


One of you's still above ground, makin' movies; the other?

Not so much.

Suck it, Charlie.

And, uh, hello? Anyone see The Ruling Class? Well, I did and I know that you not only portrayed, but in fact were, GOD. You, Dear GOD, did-indeedly-dude, RULED that classy ass! How do I know? First of all, I have eyes but, secondly, you said it yourself:

Jack Arnold Alexander Tancred Gurney, 14th Earl of Gurney: "When did I realize I was God? Well, I was praying and I suddenly realized I was talking to myself."

See. See?!

Well, of course you see - I mean them, they, the 3.14 pieple reading this.

Even if you pieple didn't see The Ruling Class, you damned well better have seen Lawrence of Arabia and, again, you - O'MyGod O'Toole - stated it clear:

T.E. Lawrence: "Do you think I'm just anybody, Ali? Do you?"
Hell no I don't and screw Ali and the rest of 'em for even thinking so!

"Just anybody."


Back to you, Sir Incredible Peter, and your immorality. I mean, immortality - potential: I have a very important question to ask you re such - and need-to-know-the-answer, STAT. And, based on both your real-life life-longevity and the cinematic discussion, exchange of dialogue that occurred between you as T.E. Lawrence and your desert guide, Tafas, I think you may have my need-to-know-STAT-answer:

Tafas: Is [Britain] a desert country?
T.E. Lawrence: No - a fat country. Fat people.
Tafas: You are not fat?
T.E. Lawrence: No. I'm different.

Are you still there, O' Mighty And All-Powerful Peter O'Toole? You are? Of course you are. Thank you for your patience, Peter, which stretches and runs as long as your O' . . . . so hard . . . . lived years. To my point: I have never been fat, though, at times, (ahem) chubby. However, I am suddenly, amidst this "fat country," very much not fat. No. I'm different. Quite.

Saint Peter, I did not, two entries ago, understand how 7 pounds in 7 days went by the wayside, waist-sides, into the desert wastelands, but I am further confounded, perplexed at how, from the day of that entry - Saturday - through the less than 48 hours skipping into Monday morning - 5 more pounds somehow . . . . slipped from my skin like so much Sahara silt into an Arabian wind, sandstorm — dust-devil.

Devil dust.

I do not, currently, resemble a picture of youth; I do not feel within me much sense of longevity.

No. I'm different.

What is it, All-Powerful, All-Knowing Great-god-A'Mighty Peter O'Toole, that's making - keeping - me different?

"I can't stand light. I hate weather. My idea of heaven is moving from one smoke-filled room to another."

Indeed, we are one and the same.... O'MyGod O'Toole, maker of heaven and mirth, from your lips to....well, mine. Then, from mine again? I dunno. This is weird. We're the same entity so I guess from our lips to their ears? How the Hell does that Capital-G God keep his phony-baloney straight? I can barely manage you, Oscar-less My Errr... Wiener!

So that's an idea of heaven, afterlife; what about here, now, Life?

"For me, life has either been a wake or a wedding."

. . . . Oh, Toole? That doesn't encourage me - much.

Jack Arnold Alexander Tancred Gurney, 14th Earl of Gurney: I can't marry a second time.
Lady Claire Gurney: You're already married?
Jack Arnold Alexander Tancred Gurney, 14th Earl of Gurney: August 28, in The Year of Me, 1964.

Nearly, but no. However, the prospect of proposal encourages a bit more than say, it once did.... Need more encouragement, though. Marrying only to wither away into some....nothingness doesn't encourage much courage. I beseech you exercise your freedom of speech from your ruling ass, O' Lord!

"The only exercise I take is walking behind the coffins of friends who took exercise."

Mmm. Good God Sainted Sir, you are, indeed, a noble, brave knight (Brits be damned; Micks are far nobler and more worthy of knighthood!) for I do not take in even that much exercise. Never have. Now? Couldn't if I wanted. Unless you count "driveway-dropping" as exercise.

That, and excessive masturbation.

Jack Arnold Alexander Tancred Gurney, 14th Earl of Gurney: For what I am about to receive, may I make myself truly thankful.

Hi, Mom!

What, you really think I can go....fuck-all, I've lost count....THAT LONG without sexual satiety?! Besides, GOD SAID IT WAS ALL GOOD!

She doesn't care. Sincerely - she doesn't.

"My dear sir, it haunted me for the rest of my life."

Oh, Toole, stop now. It's very difficult, living this invalid's Lif- "life" and I daresay even though we are one and the same, you know nothing of such loneliness.

"I'm the most gregarious of men and love good company, but never less alone when alone."

Well. I dared sayed That's what I get for taking the Lord's name in vain. Must be hard, being a god.

"I'm a working stiff, baby, just like everybody else."

Oh.My.GOD, O'PeterO'Toole! Are you daring me to again daresay? "Working stiff?" Really? Mmmm.... That is MOST un-pious speak!

Sooooooo . . . . how stiff do ya' work that baby, O' Peter-Oh-Toole?

"I wouldn't mind being a lord, though."


"The damage has been done."

....Wait. What are we talking about here? You mean my sexy-speak? I was just messin' around, you know that - seriously, you - we - know that. So, what damage done, darlin'? Little context, Lord O'MyGod O'Toole? Do it for the pieple.

"I'm 70 years of age. How do I look? You must understand, I've been very, very athletic in my life. I played every sport when I was a boy. I was a champion swimmer, a semi-finalist boxer at bantamweight, a cricketer. I played rugby when I was in the Navy...I was born fit. My dad was the same. And I've kept it up. I mean, I still play cricket."

....The pieple have no idea what the hiz-ell you're talking about, Petey. Even I'm a little lost. Bloated bullfrog? That how-do-you-look? That damage? The boozin', carousin', smokin' an—

"I stop from time to time. I didn't smoke for months until last week. I couldn't see myself at a film festival without a cig in my mouth. I'd feel foolish."

Yeah. Me, too. Then again, you're me. Only I'm not in my 70s. Chronologically. Internally, we add up the same: old, damaged, un-exercised, un-exorcised, lewd, smoky and foolish-fucktarded.

I'm tired, Dear Wouldn't Mind Being A Lord. Tired and in pain. I do not know the cause, the culprit, likely won't know for some time because free medical care, as it currently stands, is a slow, tedious, arduous process - akin to crossing the Arabian desert.

Okay. That's a bit hyperbolic.

But I am so very, very tired — and in quite a lot of pain. When your ribs crunch into your pelvis whether seated, supine, hunched (proper posture went by the waist-side long ago) and your chest crushes (pain one breath away from a name), you're wont for a very specific, special name for this, these pains. It's beyond the everyday arthritis pain; nothing at all like the shock-to-the-system pain of bloomin' ovarian cysts. It, very simply put, hurts.

The not-knowing: it damn well 'urts!

T.E. Lawrence: Of course it hurts. The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts.

See. See? This is why I come to you, Saint Peter, for you not only have so many answers, but you have The Answer - The Great Answer to all of Life's questions. I knew you would.

This is why, O' Great And Powerful Peter O'Toole, you are so. god. damn. cool.


Club Secretary: I say, Lawrence! You are a clown!
T.E. Lawrence: We can't all be lion tamers....

T.E. Lawrence: It's my manner, sir.
General Murray: Your manner?
T.E. Lawrence: Yes. It looks insubordinate, but it isn't really.
General Murray: You know, I can't make out whether you're bloody bad-mannered or just half-witted.
T.E. Lawrence: I have the same problem, sir.

T.E. Lawrence: I pray that I may never see the desert again. Hear me, [g]od.


"And let them ask anything. I think that if you try to rehearse the question first, it's not too good. Whether it seems frivolous to you or not, ask it. We'll take the gloves off."
William "The Sound and The Fists of Fury" Faulkner

Hello, Faulkner....

Nice to see ya'.

It's beeeen uh looonnnng tiiiiiiiiime

You're just as lovely....

As you-oooh-ooh-oooh

Used to be.

How's your new Life?

Are ya' happy?

Does it remind you-oooh-ooh-oooh....

Of Mississippi?

Just like you-oooh-ooh-oooh....

That's the birthplace

Of Conway Twitty.

Born in Friars Point—

But that ain't the point.

Because you-oooh-ooh-oooh

Were born

In New Albany.

But wrote all about

Yoknapatawpha County.

It sure read pretty—

Goddamned hard to me.

Which is why-eyyy-yyy-yyye

I end this ditty—

Ain't it a pity....

'Cause ain't nothin' rhymes....

With Yoknapatawpha.

"Pointless . . . . like giving caviar to an elephant."

I know, I know, Bill. I expected that response. How did I know? How'd I know to expect it?

I've been repeating this axiom for a number of years but, I do declare, Southern truisms should be declared and repeatedly:

"Billy-Boy knew his shite."

But, of course, you know this.

Many - most - of the 3.14 pieple reading this, however, do not.

Bill, we both know that "[e]verything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency" just to get the goddamned book - blog - whatever - written, so you forgive me my pointless, inelegant elephantine ramble—

But hold the caviar.

Yes. As you should.

"Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency to get the book written."

See. See, pieple? Billy-Boy here knows his shite.

Bill also knows o'tools: as in which a writer requires. Tell these here folksy, Faulksy.

"The tools I need for my work are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whiskey."

Billy, I don't need whiskey, but, like you, the tools I do require as a writer are tobacco, paper and food.

In. that. order.

We both know this wasn't always the case.

Food and tobacco always ran in nose-to-nose for a first place tie.

Now . . . . well, I don't print anything out, so paper's unnecessary and, as aforementioned, I don't need whiskey - never have been a drinker - but my appetite for tobacco rages insatiable while my desire for food?

Gimme a seventeen syllable word for "nil," Bill.

I mean, really — what the Yoknapatawpha?

"If I were reincarnated, I'd want to come back a buzzard. Nothing hates him or envies him or wants him or needs him. He is never bothered or in danger, and he can eat anything."

Hm. This is a point.... Not a pretty one, but a point, nonetheless.... I would like to regain my appetite, yes, a voracious one, yes! But dining on the dead? Well.... I'll leave that to those who prey on Capital-G God.

Ohhhhhh . . . .

"I'm bad and I'm going to Hell and I don't care. I'd rather be in Hell than anywhere where you are."

See? See? This is why you are so. goddamning. cool.

But you know this....

Okay, O' Litterateur O' Lafayette: what else ya' got?

"A gentleman can live through anything."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .



Bill, y'know, you and your big words. Define "gentle" for me oh-so-vocabulated-one. And need we be so gender-specific, sir? Rather sexist, if you ask me. What? Say again? IN REGULAR SPEAK, DAMMIT! I ain't got no "Faulkner-to-Dumbass" thesaurus at-hand!

"Man performs and engenders so much more than he can or should have to bear. That's how he finds that he can bear anything."

Food for thought. Like how you worked "engenders" in there despite keepin' on with the sexist-speak: "MAN" CAN! You are such a southern smartass. Ooh, whatta' Rebel!


"I believe that man will not merely endure. He will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance."

Bill, I am giving you a look.

I get your gist but if you keep up the mucho-macho shit, I'm gonna prevail on your inexhaustible sass with a can o' WHOOP-ASS!!!

This WOman is, like any man, exhaustible. Exhausted. Perpetually. This exhaustion is enduring, I can tell ya' that. Apparently, so is my voice, since I just told you that and so much more - will continue to do so. Forgive me, Faulkner, for I know not what I do. You do forgive me? Ah, I tell ya - this, just another reason why you are so. damn. cool.

You're a compassionate sonofabitch, Billy-Boy. In fact, I'm willing to say with my inexhaustible voice that your compassion endures beyond....well, that of any man.

Me? My compassion? Well, we are one and the same, ain't we? Just....minus the talent....and the vocabulizin' skillz.... However, as far as compassion runs, yes, we measure up as equals: mine endures. It, in fact, bleeds, it runs in such enduring strains.


My spirit?

Gimme' a twenty-two syllable word for "wan," Man.

"I decline to accept the end of man."

Are you— Did you seriously just smartmouth me AGAIN?! A mule may labor ten years willingly and patiently for the privilege of kicking you once but I ain't no virtuous woman, never have been, so patience goes by the board just to get the damn Bill KICKED-IN!

What the sam-hell did you just say to me?


You decline to accept the end of man.

Well whoooo-hooo! GOOD FER YOU! I decline to continue losing weight at unfathomable rates! I decline to accept feeling like donkey shit every hour of every day! I decline to tremble in fear as I await these chest X-Ray results and the vast array of tests to be performed, results yet to come! That's what I decline! So why don't you just go FAULK YOURSEL—

"A writer must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid."

Oh. I see. That's better.

Wait — you callin' me base, Bill?

No, no, no. I didn't think you were. This is why you are so. damn. cool.

Come again?

"The young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat."

Wow. Well . . . . I'll be damned. I . . . okay. I don't know what to say. That . . . . yeah.

I'll remember you said that, Billy-Boy.


Hot-damn, won't I remember you said that....

"Fear is the most damnable, damaging thing to human personality in the whole world. We have to start teaching ourselves not to be afraid."

Last word freak....


"I reckon I'll be at the beck and call of folks with money all my life, but thank God I won't ever again have to be at the beck and call of every son of a bitch who's got two cents to buy a stamp."
Faulkner's resounding, righteous, reckoning resignation from The University of Mississippi's post office

University of Mississippi professor: "Mr. Faulkner, what did Shakespeare have in mind when he put those words in the mouth of Othello?"

Mr. Faulkner: "How should I know?"

An elderly woman who slipped into a writing class Bill taught at Chapel Hill got up and read an involved passage from one of his books, then queried:
"Now, Mr. Faulkner, what were you thinking of when you wrote that?"

Mr. Faulkner: "Money."

"People need trouble — a little frustration to sharpen the spirit on, toughen it. Artists do; I don't mean you need to live in a rat hole or gutter, but you have to learn fortitude, endurance. Only vegetables are happy."
Billy-Boy On My Current "Happy" State


"The artist is of no importance. Only what he creates is important, since there is nothing new to be said. Shakespeare, Balzac, Homer have all written about the same things, and if they had lived one thousand or two thousand years longer, the publishers wouldn't have needed anyone since."
William Faulkner

"I was apprehensive about bringing off this Homer."
Peter O'Toole


"Missionary: Impossible." The Simpsons.

Q'Toktok: Are you enjoying your ox testicle?
Homer: Oh, yes — very much so.
Q'Toktok: Really? You sure you wouldn't rather have a coconut? They're delicious.
Homer: No, I'm good…. Ohhhh, great. Now my testicle's got ants on it.
"Missionary: Impossible." The Simpsons.

Jebus, we both know that, for me, you're really Homer J. Simpson. We also know that we are one and the same. Which means you wrote my second-to-last blaaaarrgh entry wherein we definitively established:

I 100% do not have testicular cancer.

Which means I get to keep my balls so yeah, the potential for ants remains. Ah, you're always right. Why do I ever question your wisdom? Mark that one up as a big, fat, delicious.... Mmmmmmmm.... D'OH!-nut on my behalf.

We know that the "J." in Homer J. Simpson actually stands for "Jay," but I'm gonna say the "J." stands for Jebus instead. So, Homer Jebus, let me ask you this:






What the hi-diddle-eee-ho-there, neighboreeno is wrong with me?!

....And why are you building that chapel?

"Because you're all terrible sinners!"

Since when?

"Since I got here! Now grab a stone or go. to. Hell!"

Well, Homer Jebus, would that I could lift a stone, I woul- wait. No I wouldn't. "I may not know much about God, but I have to say".... I don't believe in building cages for him. And I actually do know much about Capital-G God, too, which is why I wouldn't lift a ston—


"I gave you a glittering Vegas, and you turned it into a skanky Atlantic City!"


You mean.... Me fail drug tests? That's unpossible!

But...I have over 2 years clean! Yes, yes, over 1/3 of my liver was shot whence I got clean but the liver heals thyself! Like your flying, barbeque pig: "It's still good, it's still good!"


"Well, let me ask you this: Shut up."

You potation and glutton your way through Life, yet manage to endure, prevail; how can a human being possibly bring off this Homer, Jebus?

(Homer Apprehension: the videos have a tendency to not load on first attempt, require a little "retoole-ing;" simply reload the page, which generally solves the problem.)

"Mmmm.... I see."

Okay, Marge, okay. I see, too.

So you're not a human being, Homer Jebus; you're for fake. You live in a made-up world in which you can visit other made-up worlds. Hell, you're erasable! Your mistakes are erasable! Mine?

Not so much.

The intentional mistakes inserted into your for fake world, Life? Well, Hell! They're intentional! For fake for fun! Nothing could possib-ly go wrong! Me? My Life?

Welcome to Brilliant McSexyAss Land where anything could possib-lie go wrong! And thiiiiis health helicopter ride? It ain't the first thing that's ever gone wrong in Brilliant McSexyAss Land. No. Far from it.

Still, we two are eerily similar, Homer Jebus.

Let us never speak of this "shortcut" again.


T.E. Lawrence: The truth is: I'm an ordinary man. You might've told me that, Dryden.

William Faulkner: By temperament, I’m a vagabond and a tramp.

Homer J. Simpson: Why are you torturing me? I'm just a man!



I am not a fan of anyone who rails pro-religion or anti-religion; rails are for trains. And coke-fiends. Whichever, both are too damn speedy, dangerous, liable to run you down without warning. Potentially, kill you without braking or a look-back.

I do not like that.

Bible-thumpers? No. Not a fan. Angry atheists? Nuh-uh. Not a fan. The Great Purge of July, 2010 (aka, deletion of Facebook "friends" from my list) included people from both sides of the tracks. Obviously, I'm an atheist, so why would I ix-nay my fellow non-believers?

Because there's a fine white-line, former fiends, between love and hate. Religious zealots (ha) incense me, yes, but so do angry atheists and if the latter are so blinded by the "light" of what they deem as "THE Capital-T Truth" that they cannot discern they've now crossed the line — become just as zealous as the bible-thumpers they so deplore and rail against — well, then, here's you a one-way ticket for the next train on outta' Tolerance Town. Because I don't like meanness; I do not like rails; I do not like hysterical blindness; I do not like people who blissfully, ignorantly dance o'er the thin line of Love and hate; I do not like dancing - at all - I suck at it; I really don't like cocaine. Never tried it, but speedy drugs scare the crap outta' me. No way. I preferred to risk my Life suckin' on Fentanyl patches, thank you very much. Yes, I indeedly did like that.

Not anymore I don't. No. I do not like the fever of the flavor of Fentanyl. Nor any other drugs. Save the good kind that keep me sane. Right now, you do not believe I am on those drugs; you think I have on my tongue a host of bodies of Christ! innumerable narcotics!

No. I do not. I am making a point. That point is: to each their own. But allow me to....allow a more learned, articulate poet (I ain't no poet anyways, and don't I know it - in many ways) make the point for me. Homer, oh great and epic one, if you will:

Are you still there, 3.14 pieple? It's me.... Mmmooom? What's my name again?

If you're still there, 3.14 pieple, it's me.... QUIT. GODDAMN. SMOKING!!!! I just wanted to thank you for listening to me and my conversation with my god, as I know him...s. Funny that my personal Jebus just-so-happens to not only work as a three, three, three gods in one! but - and I really did not notice this until I hit my Homer:

"I enjoyed it. The only thing that wasn't enjoyable was in the green room. I said, 'Can I have a drink?' 'We have lemon juice, apple juice, still or sparkling.' I said, 'No, I want a drink. No drink?' I said, 'All right, I'm fucking off. I'll be back.' A man with earphones said, 'No! No!' Eventually, this vodka was smuggled in." —Peter O'Toole discussing his mostly-enjoyable experience at the 75th (2003) Academy Awards

"Pouring out liquor is like burning books." —Faulkner on the importance of being earnest— or a Barn Burn-erest....?

"To alcohol: the cause of — and solution to! — alllll of life's problems!" — Homer Jay Simpson, epic poet; epic DUFF-drinker

Crippled Christ on Cloudy Crutches. My-eyye god... is a drunk-en god! He....wanes? Stains? Drains? Potation... Potains?

Seriously — what the Yoknapatawpha?

Well, seriously, my god(s) are, like me - well, they are me - which is why my Facebook religious views stand as Peter O'Toole speaking as Jack Arnold Alexander Tancred Gurney, 14th Earl of Gurney speaking as a "delusional" man (relative to your perception of the character) speaking as Capital-G: "When did I realize I was God? Well, I was praying and I suddenly realized I was talking to myself."

Me, Myself and I. Jebus-O'Toole-Faulkner. The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Allah. Yahweh. Muhammad. Dad. KNEEL before ZOD!

I do not care. Truth is, I stopped believing because Sundays are for football. That's it. That and the fact that circa the time of my, "Sorry, Journey, but yes, I am going to stop believin' no matter how much Steve Perry implores me not to," The Bucs sucked. The Suckaneers. of little faith.

You? Believe in whatever you want. I won't judge you, you don't judge me; I won't force my beliefs on you, you don't try and Journey your beliefs on me. I like that. Or, at least, I'm pretty sure I do. I think I do. Do I? Wait - hang on a sec—

Mmmooom? I like being tolerant of other pieple's religious beliefs, don't I?


Ain't that so. damn. cool?


Regardless of whether I've got a sinus infection, tapeworm, TOOMAH or absolutely zip-zilch-zero wrong with me, I know this much:

"It is my aim, and every effort bent, that the sum and history of my life, which in the same sentence is my obit and epitaph too, shall be them both: SHe made the books and SHe died."
William Cuthbert "Billy-Boy Faulking" Faulkner — Who Knew His SHite

....She. She. Definitely a female designation, name — Mary?

Too pure.

. . . . Margaret?

Got it!

Judy. Judy Blume.

Hot damn, I knew it would come to me! Thank you, Jebus-O'Toole-Faulkner!

"And Though It's Hard To Tell You This...."

i'm too sick to write these days. expect not much. expect nothing. which is what you've been getting in spades these days so continue to expect the expected.

this will be shit.



that's spit.

close enough.

a lotta' both these days. because i am sick. how a body loses 7 pounds in 7 days i do not know but hope to find out. or do i? see, there, you sonofabitch Shakes, is the rub.

what we can rule out with absolute, unquestionable…something…? my fucking head hurts with a terrific pain that is not at all terrific. i can't — don't — think straight: not these daze.

what Annie 100% Sonic Youth Truth does not suffer from:

1) testicular cancer.

2) diabetes. i peed on a stick, if you recall. meaning, you read the blog. meaning, you read the blog and are at all able to recall what you read. jesus christ, the Lab just farted and i do believe i'll die from gas poisoning before the doctors ever figure out whatever's actually wrong with me. now that i think about it, maybe that is what's wrong with me: every damn animal on this Orwellian Farm is out for my blood. the Labrador. the Dachshund puppy. THE HORSE.

the wiener dog lives up to his name in more ways than one. we named him after my mother's favorite singer… Willie Nelson.

wiener dog.


every time i so much as lay a finger on him, that phallic phucker rolls over and, with bashful expression, excitedly pumps boner-fide pee, his rig spillin' oil faster than BP's. Texas Tea! southern hospitality! so hospitable, gonna land me in a hospital!

i shit you not one shite—nor piss you one trickle.

yet, i love the little dick. he's adorable. aren't all women suckers for dickheads?

yeah, i know. no, i don't care. i'm sick, tired, and if you don't know me well enough yet to expect this sort of vulgar expectoratin' well then…go phuck yourselph.

the Lab: okay, Sport is old, suffers terrible arthritis and hip dysplasia so every time he stands, walks…moves…his bowels loosen, and if he really gets a movement on—catches sight of a bird or cow or…fly…decides he's gonna give runnin' a go? yeah. soon as he's done, poor guy comes gimping back here, to my carport office, falling into terrible splayed displays, then five feet away from me he stops—and dumps a hugeantic load of shit in the most vile pile you can imagine. so imagine it, because i have to witness it every fucking day several times a day. also, when excited into a barking tizzy by aforementioned bird, motionless cow or a Whitty blade of grass, Sport-o spurts farts like bullets of gas. i mean, machine-gun succession and when it's 2 in the morning and you're still up because you're in too much fucking pain to even think about a wink—just the notion is laughable—so you're in the carport office Facebooking your pathetic "life" away (dull dulls the pain) with only the barely-there-glare of the claptrap laptop monitor serving as light and from the not-too-distant distance there comes a steady stream of extraordinarily loud Uzi fire?

you about shit your pants.

THE HORSE: people who know me and know me well know i hate…THE HORSE. because he hates me. Ranger. yeah, we're super-original with the pet names around here. Sport and Buster, the dogs; Ranger, THE HORSE. we once had a cat named Fuzzy. sooner or later, there will surely be a bird named Tweety.

back to the fuckin' HORSE.

he is evil on four legs. bites at me, scares the (sorry to overuse the term but i told you, i am drain bread) everloving shit outta' me (and others. see: Little Brother) by carefully hiding around corners then…stands in wait, motionless until you walk out the door, casual, nonchalant, mid-conversation, look to your right and—


the fuckin' evil eye of…THE HORSE.

Little Brother almost collapsed after one of those encounters. truly terrifying. i felt terrible for him. which is why i pointed and laughed at him for many, many, just several, countless minutes.

THE FUCKING HORSE spends most of his time standing in front of The Puppy Pen (aka, Folsom Prison. we also have a Jack Russell pup, Wailin', named for, yes, Waylon Jennings, but spelled different because he takes to, yes, wailin') and THE HORSE stands there all day long, purposefully, merely to instigate, rile the pups into barking FUHRER. (ya' think Annie gets any naps during the daytime hours? you do? well then, you're a fucking moron.) the only time THE HORSE leaves his purposeful post is post-dinner: post-oats. why? WHY?

so he can amble on over to Annie's Place, lift his tail and dump shit-tons of fertilizer all up in my FACE. not to mention (but mention i will!) his midnightly strolls that just-so-happen to coincide with Sport's barks at the moon. why's he feel compelled to lone ranger his way on over?

to let fly from his ass gas that could:

1) knock a plague of flies off a shitwagon.

2) knock back a sonic boom.

i bet i have Swine Flu.


number 105 is not alive, folks. especially when it's stretched out over a long, small-boned, 5'8" frame.

but it is up from the 104…ish of a few days ago, so that's something.

sorry, Mom, but i didn't want to freak you out into any further stress. secretly weighed myself after the "I suddenly feel compelled to take a seat in the middle of the driveway!" episode. but—hey!—last night's 3 pounds of General Tso's tseems to have tstuck, tsoooo…that's tsomething… right?

100% definitely not testicular cancer.

more than a slight chance of toxic gas poisoning…

my pack-and-a-half-a-day smoking "habit" surely helps rather than hinders whatever health crisis this might be. which reminds me…

Hel-looo, Lovah

some residual something from the 7-ish years of narcotic abuse? i dunno. seriously—i dunno because my brain—memory—is so annihilated, i don't remember fuck-all about 7-ish years ago, much of what occurred during those 7-ish years, much less what the hell i did or said yesterday. this morning.

who the fuck are you?

what was i saying?

oh yeah. regardless of whatever the hell is wrong with me, one thing is certain:

i definitely get to keep my balls.


fresh cigarette's a'lit
i spin to a '59 Sound.
the choking in my spit,
what i must bleed upon the ground:

"Here's lookin' at you, Kid."


i say, i say, this shit's for you, Motherfucker.

fuck typos.