Back with hot poop after these important messages
Yeah, yeah, I should be apologizing all over myself for abandoning you this past week, dear and gentle readers, but something happened to me. No, I didn’t get marooned in Europe by some volcano whose name looks like something a cat might punch out while walking on a computer keyboard, nor did I get beamed up into metallic origami by extraterrestrial praying mantis proctologists. Nope, I got a job, the first steady job I’ve had in like two years.
So please do forgive me while I get back up to speed. The past couple of evenings, I’ve done the internet-age equivalent to what my dad would do when he checked out after a day at the plant, when he’d smolder in front of the tube to a good episode of Barnaby Jones with a nice big bowl of rocky road ice cream. Except I can’t afford the ice cream yet, so I’ll settle for laughing at gossip accounts of entitled Hollywood stars falling out of expensive Eurotrash saloon cars and into the beds of skeevy movie producers in exchange for pepsi or royal crown or whatever these gosh-darned wacky kids are putting up their noses or smoking in their buttcrack tubes or whatever they do at those wild and wacky parties down there in the 90210 and stuff.
Back in a jiffy with more stories and entertainment. Lemme get a few good meals in me, and I’ll bring it. Srsly, I frickin’ promise, or I’ll eat a Dodger cap without the Gulden’s, the official mustard of the San Francisco Giants. —Jackson Griffith