Liam's Rhymes

"Actually do you have a smoking room available?"

Thugthugthuuug! I made the non-Jewishest hotel request of my life in ny on Friday in anticipation of Mr. Wrongway, who was taking the train from New Haven to stay with me. Liams is d-d-dirty dirty, and they charge a $300 "smoking fee" in the non-smoking rooms so I didn't want to get burned. Also, I was trying to get into a "thug mentality" since Liams is Irish; I had purposely left my Patinol and my oiled leather sponge at home for the same reason. A man doesn't need these things...

There was only one smoking floor in the entire hotel so it was pretty cloudy. One time, I waited for the elevator with two Arabs who looked like they were heading out to the club; the thicker one had his chemise unbuttoned all the way, but tucked in to form a hair-V of extraordinary sexuality. The Australian family next door to me was conducting a Pall Mall hotbox; through the walls, I could feel their children getting cancer. With no Patinol, I felt like a prisoner in Auschwitz during allergy season. It's not easy being a man.

Liams and Rugby Dan came over around 8:30 and we went to WhoFo for dinner. Liams had brought Badderall, which made us even smarter. I was honored to be in the company of such bloggers. Sadly, no rhymes were kicked...although we discussed Rod at length and concluded that he is a Fundamental Force for Good ("Rod FFG")

Best snippet at WhoFo:

Rugby Dan: Steven Fry, he's amazing, V is for Vendetta, Oscar Wilde, a bit of Fry and Laurie...

Liams: Wait...what are you listing?

Although he still got messy, Liams seemed genuinely improved. He didn't boot in my goddess, and when he ashed on my shit he looked repentant...I would now bet 4 to 1 that he doesn't overdose before age 30 (the smart money is on him getting murdered in Brazil). Since Liams is a genius of unparalelled proportions, I showered him with obsequies for a while, which made him fidgety and uncomfortable...it's not me, Liams...it's the yayo.


As for this week's job interview, I don't give a fuuck! They was just payin my ho-tel. I think I like Greene Boeuf & Lamb; their office is baller, they filmed Michael Clayton there...pret-ty Clooney dogg. Also, they have entertainment law. Lil Kim is their client - they have one of her pasties framed on the wall - and you know big momma queen bee is always dippin into trouble. Finally, it turns out insurance is fascinating: I found out that Warren Buffett - "the baller of Omaha" - made his fortune off a little company called "geico"

These days, however, I don't give a fuuck more generally. J'en ai marre des Americains...in two weeks I leave for Marseille - "the armpit of Provence" - where Katie and I will discuss death, the VAT, and antioxidants as she feeds me pomegranates from the souk, grain by grain, on the steps of the old cathedral. From up there, you can't see the dirty shithole parts and Marseille is nothing but water and creamy beige...delightfoo.

Elle me manque, la France. I miss stealing from Monoprix with impunity. I miss my chemisier. I miss the phone numbers, which are mnemonically optimized for ease of memorization. Even the country code is a mnemonic (Patrick Ewing/Jesus). I don't remember my old French cell phone number, but it ended with 69 69. French numbers also use a lot of 41, 42, 43, 44...these are easy to remember because they remind us of those pregnant years of global conflagration when all Europe was engaged - as historians would undoubtedly argue - in total war.

During those mirthless years, Baba remembers American soldiers handing out chewing gum by the garrison. He would run after the soldiers along with the other little Jews, yelling yankee yankee chewing gum! When they got a piece, they would chew it until the flavor ran out, then reflavor it with plums and sour cherries - or whatever they could get their hands on, probably - and chew it again and again. He was 8 years old. By 15, he had moved to Tehran and was hustlin.

Me, I am 8 + 8 + 8 plus a penny...add that shit up. And I have never worked a day in my life...my gravest responsibility is to drink my silica in the morning and sometimes - albeit rarely - I don't even do that.

Failed blog ideas

- Elephant/Simon Weisenthal "Never Forgets"

- Rod lookalike with black card: "And what does it get me?! Nothing my friend!"

- Yayds (AIDS from a nosebleed from sharing yayo)

My cock is in fire

Ma tante Marguerite avait dix ans de moins que ma mère et comptait par consequent vingt-six ans; mais comme elle avait vécu dans une tranquillité de coeur très profonde, elle était très bien conservée et semblait une jeune fille. Ma nudité semblait lui faire beaucoup d’impression, car chaque fois qu’elle me baignait, elle ne me parlait que d’une voix flûtée.

Une fois qu’elle m’avait fortement savonné et rincé, sa main frôla mon petit vit. Elle la retira brusquement, comme si elle avait touché un serpent. Je m’en apercus et lui dis avec un peu de dépit: “Gentille petite tante chérie, pourquoi ne laves-tu plus tout entier ton Roger?”

Elle rougit beaucoup, et me dit d’une voix mal assurée: “Mais je t’ai lavé tout entier!”

“Allons donc, ma petite tante, lave aussi ma quéquette.”

“Fi! le vilain garçon! Tu peux bien la laver toi-même.”

“Non ma tante, je t’en prie lave-la toi-même. Je ne sais pas le faire comme toi.”

“Oh! le polisson!” dit ma tante en souriant et, reprenant l’éponge, elle lava soigneusement mon vit et mes couilles. Bangin!

“Viens, ma petite tante,” dis-je, “laisse-moi t’embrasser pour la peine que tu as été si gentille.” Et je l’embrassai sur sa jolie bouche, rouge comme une cerise et ouverte sur de belles dents saines et appétissantes.

“C’est assez, Roger, tu n’es plus un petit garçon. Dorénavant, tu te baigneras seul.”

“Oh non! ma petite tante, je t’en prie, pas seul. Tu dois me baigner. Quand c’est toi qui le fais ça me produit beaucoup plus de plaisir que lorsque c’est ma mère.”

“Habille-toi, Roger!”

“Sois gentille, ma tante, baigne-toi aussi une fois avec moi!”

“Roger!”

“Tante, si tu ne veux pas te baigner, je dirai à papa que tu as de nouveau pris ma quéquette en bouche.”

Ma tante rougit brusquement. En effet, elle l’avait vraiment fait, mais seulement un moment. C’était un jour que je n’avais pas envie de me baigner. L’eau de la baignoire était trop froide et je m’étais sauvé dans ma chambre. Ma tante m’y avait suivi et, comme nous étions seuls, elle m’avait caressé et finalement avait pris mon petit vit en bouche où ses lèvres l’avaient serré un moment.

Hairplane

"Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you, but I have to take medication before we take off, and I can't take it on an empty stomach, so could I please have two bags of Terra Blues and four bottles of water?"

I don't actually have to take medication, unless you count silica as medication...and I prefer to take silica on an empty stomach. I do this routine on every flight 1) To make the other passengers jealous, and demonstrate to them that I am a VIP, 2) I'm madd haangry, and 3) cause I'm bossy. The man-stewardess-homosexual was compliant, although he gave me a suspicious look.

A couple hours into the flight I got thirsty for some liquor. I was bored, and Bravo was waiting on me to drink two Glenlivets before they put on Eddie Murphy Raw. I went back to the stewardess mengs...sorry, you are on medication, so I can't serve you alcohol. Ohh la! He said it with a shit-eating grin like he had me in a Catch-22...but he don't know me. I didn't say a word, I just fetched my bottle of silica and put it in his grill.

"This is the medication. Silica. It's for balding...and nails."

I downed the Glenlivets, but it was a red-eye and DirecTV was uncooperative. Bravo was playing Dr. Bosley's art of hair restoration, which I watched for a couple of hours, but - alas - without the ardor of my pre-silica days.