Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Dear Readers:

I have writers block – and it blows chunks.

This doesn’t mean that there is no lack of things to bitch about, mind you, my journal pages continue to expand exponentially as the world continues to play out in front of me, day after day, like a Mel Brooks movie after a few bad sausages. If I ever have to hear the words “feeding tube” one more time, I’m going to go all ape shit and then the neighborhood will be curiously short a few more squirrels.

As stated in a recent compliment:

“It’s like your brain processing your entire surrounding, and then shooting it out of a cannon of cynism projected directly at the things you despite. Just raging against all things common sense when stuck in a pit of pop-stupidity, and self-centered assholism.”

Wow, thanks! Now if you can only bake a nice raspberry torte too – I’d consider switching teams. Unfortunately, that cynic cannon of mine has only been working with all the generated explosive force of a wet fart this past week.


In fact, there is a lot to tell. Most of which, I’m sure, will inevitably make it into these blog pages sometime in the future. Such interesting personal downward spirals into total madness like my recent disastrous foray into the realms of Adult Entertainment, or my being victim to a recent random “internet smutting”, the aging pot-bellied Bo Gritz attempting yet another one of his “citizen’s arrests”, the fact that I am now practically required to fill out forms in triplicate and provide specimen samples just in order to leave my desk at work to go to the bathroom, and that Ugandans are marching in protest against Bob Geldof of all people (what the fuck do you have to do to exactly to have an entire nation march against you?). Oh, and of course, the “feeding tube” – the Holy Grail buzzword of all broadcast news media clips lately.

It’s all so fucking ridiculous and post-worthy!

But since last weekend, I have no actual motivation to translate my journals when I get home (as is my routine) into these lovingly crafted episodes of neurotic assholishness that lay spread-eagled on this humble web page that lays before you now.

It’s like St. Patrick’s Day has bleached my inspiration - fuckin’ Irish.

I’ve never experienced writers block before. Actually, I’ve only ever experienced one “block” before in my life – and that sure didn’t turn out pretty. So I’m becoming a bit anxious about this recent episode.

Each night I return weary from my toils within the ranks of Corporate Hell and the only thing I can bring myself to do is assume the position on the couch and proceed to watch the world implode in on itself like a neutron star – hosted by Paula Zahn.

It’s becoming maddening.

My apologies, oh faithful readers.


Blogger MPH said...

I've found that if you steal a nation's best plate of cheese they fucking want to gut you and dance on your bones. Maybe Geldof did that.

7:40 PM  

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