We interrupt the amusing text to bring you this special bulletin: DVD Previews Suck. Has anyone else experienced these? You just bought a DVD of your favorite film. You pop it into the player and it immediately starts running these previews of movies coming out in the future. You try to hit the DVD Menu button, but it’s been disabled. You try to hit the Chapter Forward button. It’s also been disabled. The only way to get through all the damn previews is to Fast Forward through them. What the fuck? I mean, I can maybe understand having the mandatory previews on a DVD that you’re renting, but to have to go through them every time you want to watch a movie that you actually own? Well, that just fucking sucks.

Did ya ever hear about that guy who got caught having his way with a Hickory Farms smoked cheese log? I mean, you’ve got to be pretty hard up to be getting turned on by a processed dairy product. Granted, those little bumps of bacon and whatnot on its surface can be rather seductive. But let’s not forget the important thing: It’s fuckng cheese!

Okay, bad choice of words.

But, seriously, what the hell was he thinking? The least he could have done was bought the damn thing first and taken it home to get his cheese on. But to be caught in the store with your pants around your ankles and the rest of you about six inches deep in cheese, well, that’s just sick. Fucking pervert. I thought I heard everything when I read about that one.

Then I heard about the dog who tried to have sex with a horse. That was just stupid. It wasn’t even a very big dog either. One of those shit dogs. You know, whatever you call ‘em. The one that sounds like you’re sneezing. Anyway, that fucking dog — again, a bad choice of words — had that horse on its back and he was going to town, fast and furious. I’m sorry, but that’s just not right. I mean, doggy style I can understand. But missionary? C’mon, give me a break. This world is going to hell in a handbasket.

I just wanna know what happened to good ol’ fashioned sex. You know, those days when a man and woman could join together as one in a tradional bed. Of course, the bed needs to be covered in plastic wrap, with the usual economy-size jar of mayonaise, a case of croutons and an eight-ounce jar of molasses close at hand.

I’m just kidding about the molasses. That would be disgusting. Peanut butter, sure. Chocolate syrup? Maybe. A large package of those tiny colored marshmallows? Absofuckinglutely.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just too uptight about things. I should just loosen up, let a few farm animals into the bedroom, reconsider the use of kitchen utensils, discover the pleasure of fire ants. I mean, I might not be into that stuff. But that’s no reason to deny my partner those kinds of pleasures. I just wish I wasn’t such a conservative fuck — again, a poor choice of words.

I’ve given this a lot of thought and I’ve decided I’m going to be a rock ‘n’ roll legend. Now, I know I’ve made similar statements before. But this time I’m fucking serious. Did you see that? I said “fucking serious” as opposed to just “serious.” That’s how goddamn serious I am.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I guess I better start figuring out what kind of legend I’m gonna be. Well if we’re talking about real rock ‘n’ roll, there aren’t many options. You’ve got your guitar, your drums and your keyboards. Bass? C’mon, name one rock ‘n’ roll legend who plays bass. Sting? I said rock ‘n’ roll legend, you jackass. Sting may be a legend, but he’s no rock ‘n’ roll legend. Stick to the fucking program, okay?

Let’s figure this out. I don’t know the first fucking thing about playing drums. Seems like a lot of hard work, too. So that’s out. Keyboards? Well, I ‘d have to play two different things at the same time. And that sounds pretty fucking hard to do. So screw that. That leaves one option. That’s right, guitar! Good! You’ve been paying attention. Give yourself a gold star.

The cool thing about being a rock ‘n’ roll guitar legend is I already know some chords. I can even play a few simple songs. I can’t finger pick worth a shit, though. So I guess I need to work on that. But who the fuck finger picks these days, anyway? No rock ‘n’ rollers, that’s for sure. Fuck finger picking. I’ll stick to the strumming. I’m gonna be the best fucking rhythm guitarist ever.

Think about it. There are tons of rock ‘n’ roll legends out there who play lead guitar, but how many play rhythm? None that I can think of. All I gotta do is be a kick ass rhythm guitarist. I’ll be to rhythm guitar what Flea is to bass. . . Ah, fuck. There goes that theory out the window. Pretend I didn’t say that.

Anyhow, I can see it now. I’d have this band, but instead of breaking for a lead guitar solo, they’d break to hear me play this kick ass rhythm. They’d be like, “Holy shit, that guy can play!” And I’d just be strumming away, never missing a beat, not doing any fancy finger moves or anything, Just working those strings, muffling them sometimes, then letting them twang open. Maybe I’d kick on my cry-baby wha pedal and start jamming out some old-school 70s porn shit. Ahhh yeah. You can hear it, can’t you? Am I kicking ass or what? Man, I am the best motherfucking rhythm guitarist in the whole goddamn world!

—–

Okay, you know what I was saying about being a rock ‘n’ roll legend? Well, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. I just picked up my guitar, grabbed the pick out from under the strings and started jamming away. Then I heard something I hadn’t heard before: this odd sound coming out of my guitar. I stopped playing and checked it out. It wasn’t out of tune. The neck wasn’t warped. There was only one explanation: I suck. Not just suck. But suck really bad. I suck so bad that I sound better when the guitar is out of tune. Yeah. That bad. So, really, the guitar legend thing is out. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Seriously. Just let it go. Apply myself? Hello, I’m almost forty! Apply myself. Apply this! Everyone, just go home, all right? I don’t wanna talk about it. . . Shit.

I don’t know how to tell you all this, so I might as well start at the beginning. I mean, I could start at the ending, but then all of you would be wondering what the fuck I was talking about. Out of context, you might think a shaved mule in my bathtub would be pretty strange. But once you read the whole story, you’ll realize it all makes perfect sense. So, anyhow, the beginning:

I woke up in bed last night with this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. I think part of it had to do with the blue-cheese sushi I had earlier. I found it in the back of my refrigerator, behind the green bread and the bloated bottle of fresh orange juice. But that was just part of it. The other part was just a feeling that something wasn’t quite right, like I was in grave danger. . . or maybe it was just the sushi.

In any case, I wasn’t feeling so hot. So I got up to get some orange juice to help settle my stomach. Man, that was some fresh juice. As soon as I loosened the cap, it shot across the room. Mmm. . .it tasted all bubbly, like it was carbonated or something, just like a mimosa. Heck, if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I got a little tipsy from drinking it.

Anyhow, I guess I must’ve been pretty tired, because I passed out right there in the kitchen. When I woke up, I came to a horrible realization: I forgot to feed Fluffy. Of course, Fluffy is my mule. Poor little guy. After I poured him a bowl of Science Diet Mule Chow and filled up his water trough, Fluffy came trotting in. That’s when I noticed his mane was all matted and tangled. The stupid fucking mule must’ve been horsing around with the kids again. I tried to comb his hair out for him, but it was just no use. He had to be shaved. And so, yes, I shaved my mule. In the bathtub. Because doing it in the living room would’ve just been fucking insane.

See? I told you it would all make sense.

WAKING UP IN BED, MY FRIENDS STANDING AROUND ME.

Oh, dvl, I just had the most awful dream. You were there, only you had these tiny horns coming out of your head. Maybe you were supposed to be a fairy or something. Anyhow, I dreamt I was all depressed and upset and I had no reason to continue my blog. I just decided to end it one day. . . I know, I know. It sounds so crazy. But it’s true. I swear. And you were all there when it happened.

You were there, B², only you looked like a sad clown. And you were there, Edith, but you were in a leotard. And Olivia was there covered in mud. And Xolo, and eggberto were there, and jen, and kris, and even melly. You all were there, and you were pissed. And mango was there and dawnkey and potato salad, and heintz, and Linaia and Talyn and Sara and kris. . .

Hey, what the fuck are all of you doing in my room, anyway? And who the hell let you in? Security building, my ass! bhw, you better not have been taking pictures with that camera! Sean, Ren, stay the hell out of those drawers! And put that down! It’s not a toy!

How long have you been in here? You didn’t find that porn on my computer, did you? A friend of mine sent that to me. I was gonna delete it, I swear. I had no idea people did those kinds of things with wild boars. Disgusting.

Shit, I think I’m gonna have another panic attack. Okay, deep breaths. Close my eyes. Go to my special place. . . Fuck, I feel like I’m gonna vomit. . . But it’s good to be back. Thanks for all your support. Now, get the fuck out. Uh, please?