Comrade:   Jazzsoda 2: Funk School

   Call me at home later if you want the real story, this is just the bullshit version for the feds. Some years ago—never mind how many, I'm not going to date myself by saying Banannarama was at the top of the pop charts or anything like that—having little or no women in my pantry or bookcase, and nothing particular to interest me aside from the winter Olympics, which are only interesting if you're smashed on vodka, I thought I would but then thought better of it. Then I thought maybe I'd overdose on heroin a little and see the look on mom's face when she came out Christmas morning to find my stiffened corpse warming under the glow of the Christmas tree lights. Trust me, that kind of thing goes over like gangbangers in this part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the very men who might love me, or might just want my skin to make a couch, which it really does beautifully and is good for decor, and regulating the color balance of the room. An insane interior decorator told me that once. Whenever I find myself growing pickles, I really have to wonder what's wrong with my soil. Speaking of September, I once read a long book about the month; whenever anybody says reading is FUNdamental, remind them of "September: One Twelfth of the Year," a stultifying book whose prose is damp, drizzly and otherwise reminiscent of poop. Incidentally, there's a small, caged bird in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily farting in a crowded room, and bringing up the rear of every other person in the room who thought it was them, and they desperately want to cover for it by eliciting a fart-like noise from their seat cushion and especially whenever my ancient Uncle Froustus, upon whom I have a slight crush, is in the room, I always blame it on that little caged bird, the dirty gasmaster. But whenever one of these lies get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a real whopper of a doosie to prevent me from being found out a faker, I just snatch up the nearest broomstick or table leg and savagely beat Aunt Mildred into the street, and then denounce her publicly for secretly peeing in people’s hats - which distracts everyone's attention and I can only think increases my prospects with Uncle Froustus—then I account it high time to bake an apologetic turd pie for Mildred as soon as a sufficient number of soul-canary droppings can be accumulated.

      

06/28/2004

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Comrade:   SilentFilmStar

   Call me anything you want to, sailor. Some years ago—never mind that hulking Italian standing behind you (he only wants your spaghetti)—having little or no time to waste in my choatic flight from all the exes that I still owe money to, and nothing particular to interest me except that sexxxxy guy living two floors up, I thought I would steal a couple of cars for my personal demolition derby, imbibe copious spirits, and work on perfecting my innocent look a little and see the "much more interesting than where I am" part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the little demon elves that haunt all my waking hours, and regulating the amount of bullshit cluttering up my life. It really does tend to collect quickly. Whenever I find myself growing shorter every day and lackadasical about the month; whenever I come home after a long day and find that the mansion I'm living in (unbeknownst to the owners who are vacationing in the south of France) is damp, drizzly and freezing from the waterslide that I installed in the basement and is cramping up my style and putting a serious hurting in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily bathing in chocolate syrup (which can be kind of fun, voluntary or otherwise), and bringing up the rear of every line for Rolling Stones' tickets in the country and especially whenever my divergent emotional states get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a entire carful of male strippers and three bags of Oreos to prevent me from smashing everything in sight and throwing random passers-by into the street, and hallucinating that people’s hats look like lunch—then I account it high time to cut my losses and move to Roswell, because no weird shit happens there (if you trust the government) as soon as I can hitch a ride with a cute but brainless trucker named Jay, who doesn't have a clue what he's getting into, because I'm one difficult bitch to deal with.

      

11/09/2003

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Comrade:   messiahblue

   Call me DUBB-YA. Some years ago—never mind the year—having little or no brain in my skull box, and nothing particular to interest me except the missus, I thought I would bomb Iraq a little and see the Nasstyyyy part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the the feelings of inadequacy, and regulating the block and tackle. Whenever I find myself growing antsy about the month; whenever my undies is damp, drizzly Jesus in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily forced to do Cheney's bidding, and bringing up the rear of every megalomaniac and especially whenever my daddy's rich friends get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a pretzel to prevent me from running naked and stoned into the street, and using  people’s hats to wipe my ass—then I account it high time to search for weapons of minor deastruction as soon as Christianly possible.

      

10/22/2003

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Comrade:   Jazzsoda

   Call me Spanky Doodle Dandy, if you would. Some years ago—never mind what you've heard about years ago, it's all a lie—having little or no vittles in my vittle bag, and nothing particular to interest me friends nor me grammar tutor, Ike, I thought I would think a little thought a little and see the smoke fume from me ears in the charming way it does. Quite the benefit of living in this part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the tee that amazes those who don't know I'm golfing. I'm known far and wide for egguating the omlette, and regulating the regulgitated yams. Whenever I find myself growing over three feet in a day, I declare it a national holiday. That's the thing about the month; whenever I check my calendar, it's always a holiday. My wife is damp, drizzly and fearsome, but I guess we're all a bit biased toward our wives, ain't we? There's small dog in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily humping a conga line of Shriners, and bringing up the rear of every last one of them and especially whenever my shoes fit too tight, I blame it all on menopause. Word to the wise, there. But when the Shriners get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a more solid alibi to prevent me from going to a Shrinerless jail or being thrown into the street, and trod upon, I just say I poisoned my brain by eating people’s hats and the felt made me strange. I laugh a gutteral laugh—then I account it high time to spend some time high, which I plan on attending to as soon as you're done reading this.

      

10/21/2003

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Series 11
"That was a good first day," God said to no one in particular, for He was the only being that existed at that time. And so, He did rest. (6/1/03)

Series 10
Patrick Henry, leader and orator in the first season of the popular television show "Podium? I Hardly Know Him!", quit the show after the producers refused to change the title. (2/3/03)

Series 9
Jesus will rise up and live out the true meaning of grape juice: "We hold these knuckleknobs to be cheesily obvious: that all men are patented." (8/17/02)

Series 8
Four plus seventeen is twenty-one and seven plus twelve is nineteen. Now that I've astounded you with my mathematical prowess, my dear, let's move on. (2/8/02)

Series 7
South Yonkers, NY, a quaint little suburb with tree-lined streets and the cutest little duplexes you ever did se-AKK! He's eating my toe! AH! Oh, the humanity! I'll never play footsie again... oooh. (10/26/01)