Gender: Male
Status: Single
Age: 56
Sign: Gemini
City: LOUISVILLE
State: Kentucky
Country: US
Signup Date: 5/20/2007
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Tuesday, October 06, 2009
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Current mood:  quiet
Category: Friends
Often, in life, things happen quickly.
Twenty minutes ago I was hanging on a peg at a place called
PeekWorld. Now I’m on the front seat of a silver Dodge Dakota — an SLT
four-door with an extended cab — being driven much too fast by a young
guy who, after a lot of pensive looking around and pacing and
considerable comparison and debate, purchased me for $79.95, plus tax.
Oh wait. I should tell you I’m not a person; I’m a sex toy — a
masturbator, actually. More specifically, I’m an artificial vagina. My
name is Debbie XS11.
Leadfoot here paid for me with a credit card that had a picture on
it of a tiny, smiling girl in a highchair. I notice little things.
Details. Like personalized credit cards. Like how a speeding truck can
smell like a mix of Axe Kilo body spray and old motor oil.
Before Martin, the clerk at the adult bookstore, slid me into a
brown paper bag, I noticed that this still-somewhat-nervous acting,
Jeff Gordon wannabe wears his cell phone on his belt. That would
explain, at least in part, his need for a Debbie XS11. But the guy’s
surprisingly good looking — for a cell-phone–on-his-belt-wearer. He’s
shortish and slight, but also in a too-scrubbed-and-clipped, blond,
blue-eyed and rednecky sort of way very cute.
I am sharing the brown bag with a couple of magazines, one called
“Creamgirls,” the other titled “Facials.” The bag is open at the top
and tilted against the passenger side door in such a way that I can see
tree tops, forlorn-looking poles and wires, the occasional, nondescript
rooftop and expanses of a swollen, gray, southern Indiana sky.
My new owner switches on the truck’s radio and I hear Tim McGraw
confess to spending forty-eight dollars last night at a county fair and
throwing out a shoulder while winning someone a teddy bear.
She’s got me saying sugar-pie, honey, darlin’, and dear, Tim sings.
While McGraw’s liking, loving and wanting more of it, I stare at a
seemingly stationary blimp advertising “MetLife” in the sky and wonder
how much farther it is to wherever Speedracer and I are going. He
cracks a window and a sudden rush of wind causes the brown bag to make
a noisy flippy-flap sound that drowns out the radio. Cutie smashes the
accelerator a little more.
Eventually the truck slows and we turn onto Something Church Road.
After a few lefts and a right, we pull into a driveway and stop. I’m
gathered up along with a black metal lunch box and Pager Wearing Boy
jumps out of the truck into an overcast day and hoofs it across an
overgrown lawn. He holds the bag in such a way that I can’t see much,
but I hear children playing, the sound of a distant lawn mower and,
closer by, a woman crying.
A man’s hoarse-sounding voice asks. “How’s it going, Wade?”
With a simply stated, “it’s going,” Wade climbs a few porch steps.
There’s the jangle of keys. I hear a door bang open, then the clomping
of boots on a wooden floor. The metal lunch box makes a sort of
combined clang and thunk noise when Wade sets it down on a glass coffee
table. When he tosses the magazines and me on a couch, I slide out of
the brown bag and can see again.
Through a big, curtainless and rain-speckled window I notice a Jeep
in Wade’s drive that’s more or less in pieces and an old Pontiac Grand
Prix up on blocks in a frightfully unkept front yard.
Contrasting the clutter and chaos outside, the interior of Wade’s
home is sparse, colorless and almost prissily neat. A black, leather
couch and a huge, flat-screen TV are this room’s only furnishings.
Wade’s walls are painted an ash color and he has nice, hardwood floors.
At first I was thrilled this guy decided on me instead of Pamela
XL200, with her life-like pubic hair. I truly hated PeekWorld and the
panic I’d sometimes feel when some old, fat fucker would eye me. But
now something about Wade makes me not so sure about him, either. Still,
in a sort of incongruent, hayseed-trying-to-be-a-hipster kind of way,
he is cute.
The cloddish work boots he wears, the silly phone caddy and a chain
wallet that’s too young for him all could go, but I like his dark,
loose-fitting jeans and tight, black T-shirt with the word “Hollister”
across the front in stone-colored letters.
Wade disappears, returns after a minute or two with an icy-looking
Bud Light and walks to the big window. Staring outside, he takes a
long, throat-working drink.
Like some sort of geek cowboy might draw a gun, Wade snatches his
cell phone, quick-like, from its holster, punches buttons and waits.
“Hi, Meg,” he says softly. “I know I said I wouldn’t call you, but…”
Moving to his right, almost out of view, Wade watches a girl — a young
woman, really — as she steps out onto a porch just across the street.
“I’m not looking for that either, Megan,” Wade says, “and I
definitely don’t want to fight with you. I just want to make sure
you’re not going to try and make it hard for me to see Madison. She’s
three years old, Meg. She don’t understand what’s happening.
Everything’s changed so much for her… for all of us, really.”
The woman across the way is red-eyed. Her face is puffy, but she’s
still quite pretty and Wade can’t seem to take his eyes off her. He
puts his beer down. “And none of that changes the fact I still love
you, Megan,” he says, calmly. “Okay. Okay. Fine. As long as you don’t
try to keep Maddy from me. I can somehow learn to live without you,
Babe, but I can’t live without my daughter. I won’t.”
It occurs to me the dark-haired woman on the porch is the same woman
I heard crying earlier. Still watching her intently, Wade says, “You
are sooo wrong, Meg,” into his phone.
“I never thought about another
woman the whole time you and I were together. Not once. … Don’t worry
about that, I’m not going to spend a lot of time hoping where there
ain’t any anymore. You do what you have to do. Go through with the
divorce. Whatever. Just tell me I can pick my daughter up on Friday, on
most Fridays, and you and I won’t fight in front of her any more.”
Wade has sapphire blue eyes, a smallish upturned nose and a nice,
wide mouth I note as he stands at the unadorned and, now, fogging-up
window. “Every guy isn’t Darryl, Megan,” he says, “and I don’t care
what you say, some of us don’t stray or even want to stray.”
The pretty but distraught looking girl across the way steps back
into her house and Wade turns from the window. A couple of minutes
later he hangs up his phone, takes another long pull on his Bud Light
and punches more buttons.
“Hey Sean,” Wade starts to pace. “Yeah, thanks,” he says. I notice
he has a piece of black leather cording or something tied around his
wrist.
“Yeah. Twenty-four. Tomorrow.” Wade frowns and sputters the words, “Are you kidding me?
“Hell no!” he barks. “No! Fuck him! I don’t want anything from Dad.
I don’t know. Not much. The truth is I don’t need much. … No. I just
got back from buying myself a… Wade looks over at me… an, um, CD and a…
a couple of books. And it’d be fine with me if that’s all I got this
year.
“Nah, don’t even do that.” Wade walks over and sits on the couch
beside me, close enough I can feel his body heat. “What was that? …
Well you can’t keep an outside dog inside.” Reaching over, he moves
“Creamgirls” and rests a slender hand on top of me.
It’ll be a couple of hours and several more calls later before Wade
carries me into his bedroom. It’s another cheerless, sparse, but neat
room with a tidy, almost funereal-looking bed and a black, mirrored
dresser. There’s a nightstand and, on the wall over the bed, a
pearl-encrusted cross.
After closing window blinds, Wade walks toward the bed. Using both
hands to hold me, he rubs me against his Levied crotch and I feel him
swell under the thick fabric of his jeans. Wade places me on the bed,
pulls his shirt off and then leaves the room. He returns after a minute
carrying a slate-colored towel and a large bottle of lotion. It’s
shocking to me to see how small and thin the guy is.
After unbuckling a too-big-for-him belt, Wade unzips his pants. He
spreads the towel flat on the bed and moves me over to the center of
it, pushing his jeans and underwear down his smallish body until they
drop and rest on and around work boots he’s still wearing.
The head of Wade’s fully hard dick is wide. A dark rose color. In
all honesty it’s a beautiful cock — so perfect it almost looks more
manufactured and artificial than I do.
With pump bottle in hand, the young man moves closer to the bed,
bends at the waist and his thin fingers spread open my perfectly
crafted labia. Sticking the hard tip of the bottle into my tiny vaginal
opening Wade pumps me too full of a white, coconut-smelling lotion
before proceeding to pump a couple of generous squirts of the same
lotion into a cupped right palm.
I watch him slather lotion on and then up and down a now fully hard
dick. Still bent at the waist, Wade slides a middle finger into me.
Slowly moving it around, he actually groans. He finger fucks me for
half a minute or so. Preparing me.
Finally I feel his weight as he climbs onto the bed and positions
himself over me. Guiding his cock with his fingers, Wade pushes just
the thick head of his cock into me. He waits a long minute, then
silently sinks the rest of his length into me.
Watching his small, firm ass repeatedly tighten and release in the
dresser mirror, I think about what will happen to me when this is over.
I’ll most likely be ignored. Tucked away in a closet or drawer and
lucky to be taken out once a week. Eventually I’ll be thrown away when
Lover Boy finds a real vagina to service his needs. Once a week.
As Wade moves slowly, balls-deep, in and out of me I decide I won’t
worry about the future. Several silent minutes pass with Wade’s lubed,
moving cock grinding against my hard little nub of a clit.
After emitting an almost scared boyish little whimper Wade suddenly
and inexplicably pulls completely out of me and, on his knees, crawls
forward on the bed. Using his cock-guiding hand now to finish, he
throws back his head and shoots ropy, white jets of cum all over a
pillow.
As Wade’s orgasm subsides he husks one word: “Bitch.” He sits back on his heels, calms and climbs off the bed.
I watch him walk out of the room. Lying there, I see myself
reflected in the mirror and I’m shocked at how pink I look in Wade’s
colorless world, like a huge wad of chewed bubble gum on a sad, lonely
sidewalk.
Several nights pass with me tucked away in the nightstand on the
left side of Wade’s bed. The drawer is a little off the track, keeping
the drawer slightly ajar so I can at least see out, watch Wade pace as
he talks on his phone. I watch him eat. See his flat-screen TV mounted
on the wall, a large shiny square that rarely comes to life.
I also see out the big, bare window nearly a week of days just as grim, weather-wise, as that first one was.
I believe it’s a Thursday evening when I hear Wade’s key in the
front door. He’s been gone most of the day, leaving empty-handed that
morning at around eleven but returning now with two large shopping bags
from Baby Gap.
Wade’s on the phone as he comes through the door. He’s a talker for
sure. One day, 6O years in the future, he’ll be one of those tiny,
gossipy old men on a bench in a park somewhere.
“The thing about you, Sean, is you like KFC with a side order of
wedges. I’m more a grilled, lemon pepper chicken on a bed of rice. …
What do you mean that’s what I’m trying to be?
“Who wouldn’t be impressed? … Yeah. well, that may be, but she was
very impressed with my daddy skills. Yeah. She said she enjoyed
watching me around Maddy.
“No way, man, she’s not West End at all. No, no, she’s very East End. I know! She has that ass and a fuck-ton of money.”
Behind Wade I see it’s still… or again raining. I sigh. After so
many weeks of the bright lights and colorful images at the store, I’m
sad to find myself in a dark drawer looking out and learning how dreary
a late summer/early fall can feel.
“You want me to do what?” Wade asks whoever Sean is. “No! Fuck no! I
don’t care. Tell her whatever you want. No, Sean. There’s no way I’m
coming there to meet her.
“Because she’s fat, Sean. … That’s easy for you to say. You’re
banging the hot nurse. … I appreciate the thought, Sean, but it’s not
like I’m desperate.”
Soon, with one of his dark gray towels and the bottle of awful
lotion in one hand, a fully nude Wade lifts me out of my drawer with
his other hand and after not much preliminary or prepping at all,
little Wade fucks me with his big dick. Jabbing almost painfully into
me, it doesn’t take him long to pull out, crawl up and again jack off
onto his pillow.
As his orgasm subsides, he utters another single word; this time it’s “Haley.”
I eventually learn Haley is the 17-year-old sister of Wade’s wife,
Megan. I also become aware of how Haley doesn’t know Wade is alive.
In the kitchen, a completely nude Cell Phone Boy opens a cold beer,
and a bag of potato chips. Resting on a crotch-high kitchen table, I’m
again struck by how small and slight Wade is and notice for the first
time how disproportionately short his arms and legs are to how long his
trunk is.
Wade takes a few steps toward a radio. He punches it on and a nasal sounding country voice sings. Wade sings along with it…
‘Cause when I’m a bullet shot out of a gun
‘Cause when I’m a firecracker comin’ undone
Or when I’m a fugitive ready to run, all wild-eyed and crazy
No matter where my reckless soul takes me
Baby you save me.
Watching Wade bite into a potato chip I’m reminded of that little
gecko that sells insurance on TV. I think about how it is that someone
can be quite cute while also being a little reptilian.
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Friday, May 29, 2009
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Current mood:  aroused
Category: Blogging
I’d write a new blog this morning, but I’m masturbating while fantasizing about a three-way with Nancy Pelosi and Fareed Zakaria right now and, honestly, I’ve never been very good at multi-tasking.
The thing of it is… here’s the thing of it… I’m taking this sort of a new approach to “Whacking on Wayne.” What I mean is, while fooling around with myself, I normally fantasize about folks much younger and more attractive than Nancy and Fareed but nearing a 56th birthday I’m trying to give up on the young for good -- in both my real and fantasy life.
I mean it.
And I’ve vowed to not be so shallow about attractive too.
Oh… don’t get me wrong. I’d still do someone young, fairly young. But he or she’d have to have had a back surgery or two, maybe, or for some less serious reason have somehow learned to mosey. Because I don’t like to hurry much these days and the young always seem to be going at a break-neck pace.
And not only can’t I keep up anymore, I really don’t want to keep up.
Hold on a minute… I think I need more lotion.
Yes more lotion and, since it’s just a fantasy, I also need to break my new ridiculous no-fantasizing-about-the-young rule and maybe bring the Jonas Brothers into things. You know, turn this lurid mental lust and whack-fest into an even bigger group thing. Yes. I can put Nick Jonas in a baseball uniform and Kevin in leather and Joe could be in drag…
No, no, no! No more young people.
I don’t know. Maybe I should just try to look at some Internet porn.
No, the free shit is all so tawdry and boring. I’ll just have Nancy call me bad names…
Fuck, now my phone’s ringing. Never mind. It’s just Cliff. I’m not going to answer it because I hate Cliff and what with using one hand to type this and the other to well, you know, it don’t leave any hands for phone answering.
Oh yes, yes… I’m getting close… wait… a completely naked and engorged Fareed… no, he’s tumescent… anyway, Zakaria is opening a door and waving Zac Efron and Rachel Maddow into… my head.
Lawsy! No, this won’t do. High School Musical and smart, wry, sarcastic lesbo will have the opposite effect that I need to…
Maybe I can scrap this whole group sex fantasy thing and just think about these Christian Dior sunglasses that I saw online… Oh yes! Now I’m getting there … and oh a… (pant, gasp, really heavy breathing helpless-sounding moan)… Louis Vuitton Damier laptop bag… Oh god, I’m close! …
Shit! It’s nearing one-thirty and I have to leave for work in fifteen minutes… but now I’m wearing the Dior shades and Pelosi is crawling under a llama and I don’t know how the llama got… What kind of cheap lotion? …
Dammit! Cliff is calling again.
Oh well, screw it. I’ll just try to blog and/or masturbate again tomorrow.
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Tuesday, May 19, 2009
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Category: Blogging
Though I was pretty sure it would never happen to my increasingly curmudgeonly and waning ass again, I gotta tell you: I think I have fallen in love.
Yep. This time with a waiter who works at a place where my dear Paula Mae and I dine on a regular basis. I’m not going to mention the name of this great little eatery (with outdoor tables covered in festive, tropical, plastic tablecloths), but I will tell you they serve up some really fine tomato basil soup and have at least one waiter who (though a tad, a smidge, a trifle Emo — and Emo really gets on my nerves) will gladly bring it to you.
This wee-bit Emo waiter’s young. I’d say he’s between 11 and 33, probably falls somewhere in the middle, around 22.
He’s a thin, pale and efficient boy. And though I’ve long ago sworn off the young (and until recently was holding out for one-time general manager of MSNBC Dan Abrams, but that was before the network shook up their prime-time lineup and replaced him with Rachel Maddow), I do find I really like thin, pale and efficient.
I also like Rachel Maddow, though I heavily suspect she isn’t a replacement for Abrams at all. I think Dan was given a makeover and he and the slightly more masculine Rachel are actually the same person.
Anyway, this waiter guy has dark bangs that are like a careful row of commas just above his eyebrows.
And I think being in love again will do wonders for my mood and outlook —neither of which are very rosy these days. I don’t know why.
It just seems like the more enlightened I get the dimmer is the world around me. This is especially true of Old Louisville, where this pretty interesting little restaurant is located and is an area of my city I once thought magical. Now it just seems to be a bunch of full-of-themselves hummus-eating fuckers in good shoes, drab buildings, traffic and the occasional homeless guy.
I have no idea what pale, thin, efficient almost-Emo guy’s name is, but I’m betting it’s Connor. He could be a Hunter, but my money’s on Connor. It doesn’t matter: I love him.
So now all I have to do is somehow convince him being loved by someone old enough to be his great-great-great-grandfather, someone slightly balding, slightly pudgy and slightly flatulent (okay, a lot flatulent) would be the best thing to ever happen to him. You know — make my pitch about how much he could enjoy nice lunches, slow walks and waiting for prescription refills and lab results.
It won’t be an easy sell. It’s an uphill battle, but I think I have enough charm and a scary enough gun that in time I could persuade him to at least consider an affair with me.
And let me just say that a good deal of my desire to woo near-but-not-quite-Emo boy has little to do with sex. I am, after all, 55 years old and most everything I own aches or swells (in a worrisome, not good, way).
But I would so like some interesting male company from time to time and he might be interesting, maybe.
Now if for some sick reason he’d actually want to have sex with me, I’d give it a shot. It wouldn’t be pretty though. Imagine Newt Gingrich frolicking with Adam Lambert. (It’s okay. Visualizing that even made me shudder.)
And honestly, anymore, I’d just as soon curl up with a bag of cookies, but I would go along with some sex. But more than wanting to do him, I’d like to teach him Canasta or lure him into some Scrabble and maybe some “Family Guy.”
And I don’t know if I mentioned this, but Connor, the soup-carrying god, has really excellent posture and I often take note of and am impressed with really good posture. So, I think he’d be a really nice…
Oh never mind. Though thin and pale and efficient is good — I mean really good — I should try to look ahead and find someone older or someone with a couple of back surgeries behind him. A person with things of their own that ache and swell (not always in good ways). You know?
I love you people. Please check out www.brizzlesbasket.com — even if you are so sick of me you could puke — and please, please, please tell other folks about it.
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Monday, May 11, 2009
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Category: Blogging
1. Reading my stories and posts on www.brizzlesbasket.com and
recommending them to your friends and family will result in you having
a bigger, more stalwart, athletic and bold, dependable and scarily
forceful, hefty, husky, muscular, powerhouse-like, robust, staunch,
steam-rolling and stout, valorous (oh I like valorous) and vigorous
penis. Yes, I said penis! And I’m not lying either -- it really will
give you a bigger one. And if you’re a girl and don’t even have a penis
it will give you larger breasts. If you already have big enough breasts
visiting www.brizzlesbasket will make them perkier and it is my
understanding perky breasts are good.
2. Reading the stories and posts on my web site will significantly
lower your blood pressure. If you still experience dull headaches,
dizzy spells or nosebleeds after reading some hilarious “Rock Me,
Momma” stories and the like on the site you can totally ignore these
symptoms. It’s okay. Really. Throw away your medicine.
3. Spending time on www.brizzlesbasket.com will make you guys look like
HGTV designer David Bromstad in jeans. I’m not foolin’. No matter what
size you are lengthwise and/or otherwise you will look exactly like
David does in jeans but you’ll be a lot more butcher than him and you
won’t paint pictures on plywood. And you ladies who spend a good deal
of time visiting the Basket and who nag and needle everyone you know
into visiting it will continue to look pretty much like you already do
in jeans. But reading the works of a literary giant like myself will
immediately result in you finding a boyfriend and/or husband. He won’t
be much to write home about and he’ll wear vests, but, let’s face it,
you are not getting any younger.
4. A daily visit to www.brizlesbasket.com will increase your approval
ratings. Barack Obama isn’t enjoying a 64 percent approval rating right
now because he’s in front of “American Idol” or “Dancing With the
Stars.” Being smart and shit has nothing to do with it, either.
Noooooooo-sir-ee. The reason BO is so loved is because he’s an avid fan
of yours truly. Yes! That, and he also looks like David Bromstad in
jeans.
5. Bookmarking and visiting my web site will result in you having
moister, more youthful looking skin. Skin like Zac Efron’s, “Twilight”
star Robert Pattinson’s and Adam Lambert’s. Okay, you’ll probably turn
gay as well, but isn’t that a small price to pay to avoid being all dry
and wrinkly?
6. Anyone who reads one of my stories, prints it out and passes it
around at the office will receive a full set of Louis Vuitton luggage.
Including a garment bag. Of course, if you are reading and printing and
passing out a tired old man’s ramblings, you really don’t have anywhere
to go. But should that change, you’ll have really nice bags to carry
with you.
7. Reading most anything on www.brizzlesbasket.com will cause an
erection lasting more than four hours. Viagra and similar product’s
commercials say if you have an erection lasting longer than four hours
you should seek immediate medical attention -- like that’s a bad thing.
I don’t know. Call whomever you like, but when I have an erection
lasting longer than four hours, I usually call this horn-dog Republican
alderman I know and Pizza Hut.
8. Enjoying the essays and blogs on my site will help you to improve
your spelling. Ah fuck. No it won’t. I’m lying. I’ve told the complete
truth in 1 through 7, but this whole improved spelling thing is pure
bullshit.
9. If you have bad habits like picking your nose or licking doorknobs
or watching “Rock of Love” or camping outdoors, a quick visit to
Brizzleland will immediately cure you. Another friend of mine, Frank
Berkheimer (who is not an alderman), had a bad habit of watching
musicals all the time, but immediately after he discovered and started
reading my glorious work (on www.brizzlesbasket.com) he simply stopped.
Okay, “Momma Mia” may have been a sort of straw that broke that camel’s
back and played a part in it all, but now he rents really good, not so
ridiculously faggy movies.
10. Going to my web site and reading my stuff will make you cooler than the other side of a polar bear’s pillow.
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Monday, April 13, 2009
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Current mood:  depressed
Category: Blogging
Hi people, friends, dear fellow Myspacers...
This is just a quick post asking you to check out my new website www.brizzlesbasket.com. Check it out this morning. Check it out regularly, bookmark it and (please) refer it to any friends you have, people you know, who maybe/just might appreciate meeting my colorful mom and who might enjoy some of my writings. (As always) Love and thanks to you all.
Bill
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Saturday, October 04, 2008
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Current mood:  triumphant
Category: Blogging
It's a few years ago and the thing of it is… here's the thing of it… I think I look pretty good.
I'm serious. I look like Jon Bon Jovi. I mean, from in here, from inside me, looking out, it feels like I do, it feels like I'm a dead ringer for the man.
And like, when I see Jon BJ in a photograph or video, it's… um, weird to me. Like an out-of-body experience or something.
Wow! I even have his same chest hair!
In fact, I think I look so much like Jon Bon Jovi I have (and again, I'm not kidding), on occasion, considered buying leather pants.
Calm down, I don't ever buy any. But I do consider it.
I can sort of pull this self-deception off because I have only one mirror in all of my house. And it's a small mirror. A 5" by 7" framed thing that's propped on a shelf over my bathroom sink for times when I absolutely must shave. But even then I don't really look at myself because I like, like, like thinking that I look like JBJ. So, when shaving I'll look at my beard, my neck, a patch of skin in front of my ear but I won't really look at me.
Because I want to continue to believe I'm all that, see. That I'm hot. And a cowboy, on a steeeeel horse I ride…
Sigh…
Before I looked like Jon Bon Jovi, I looked like John Schneider.
Yep. Bo Duke and I were twins, especially when I wore faded jeans. I usually climbed in and out of cars the regular way but for years, I looked very Duke-ish, was quite Bo-like.
And before I looked like John Schneider, I was the spitting image of David Cassidy.
I don't know what it was but one morning, I woke up with this feeling, I didn't' know how to deal with and so I just decided to myself, I'd hide it to myself… and never talk about it, and did not go and shout it,
I thought I loved me!!!
I truly do have this history of fooling myself, always made easier by a break-neck deadly avoidance of cameras and mirrors.
Okay, one day, after my brother takes pictures of me (unaware) at a family picnic I learn I don't look a damn thing like David Cassidy. And years later forced to pose for and then later look at some wedding pictures, I see I'm no Bo Duke either… and for a while, I face reality. I'm not so much. I'm okay. I'm every woman…
But now, I'm depressed and my life sucks like a Dyson Bagless Upright Vacuum Cleaner, with a Revolutionary Ball Motion System.
Then some years pass where some photo-snapping torturing sadists and hateful mirrors fail to insert themselves into my life and it starts occurring to me that I bear this striking resemblance to Jon Bon Jovi.
My self-esteem soars, it's through the roof and I'm looking at, not trying on mind you, but looking at leather pants.
They tempt me because, you know, my buttocks, like Jon's, are like two powerful, clinched fists trying to bust through some leather.
Anyway, I'm happy again, I'm hawt… I'm Wanted Dead Or Alive, I'm Livin' On A Prayer, I'm some Bad Medicine, and why not? It's My Life and I can invite the Hargrove boys, all five of them, to one at a time or all at a time, Lay Their Hands On Me, if I want to. And if I Give Love A Bad Name, so what? Life is no Bed Of Roses anyway. And Everyday, if I feel I was Born To Be a Hargrove's Baby, it's nobody's business but mine.
Things are both hunky and dory, peachy and keen, fine and dandy, Mary-Kate and Ashley for a long while until Dan, my son, moves in with me for a bit and thinks it's weird that I don't have any mirrors. For whatever crazy reason, the boy actually wants to look at himself in one sometimes. I don't get it, but it's true and while I'm at work one day the child goes out and buys a full-length mirror that he hangs on the back of my bathroom door, only I don't know it.
That night he's not home when I get in from a shift at Waiting To Die Manor that was enough to make Dean Koontz sleep with the lights on and I go upstairs, peel out of my uniform and climb into a nice, long hot shower. I finish washing everything that needs washing, step out of the tub and I'm feeling all…
when out the corner of my (gasp!) eye… I see…
Lord, I jump like Carl Lewis at a Ku Klux Klan Fourth of July celebration and make this surprised sound that I've never made before. It's like a honk, but sadder, and it has an "R" in it. So, it's like HORNK!
Good-Lordy-Jesus, the image of a white-hired wet fat man scares the sweet spit outta me and for a second I think a naked Dick Cheney has broken in to my bathroom in a mood to shower with and do, god knows what else, to me!
Standing on my toilet tank now, I clutch my heart and my mind plays an infomercial. Richard Simmons holds up a picture of the five Oreo cookies that I ate last night and he looks into a camera. Glycerine tears wet the fretting fucker's face. "Are you out of control?" he asks. "Is Mr. Brizzle's story your story?"
I'm dripping water and still just stunned as I climb down off the back of the toilet.
I bravely stand in front of the mirror.
Shit, piss, dammit, snot, fuck-fuck-fuck… I'm not Bon Jovi at all. I'm not even Dick Cheney… more like Lon Cheney.
And I'm the size of a cruise ship. Rosie O'Donnell, her family and 300 of her gay friends could have a good time on me and I'm older than Shirley McClain's diaphram. I'm also covered in red, angry-looking boils. Okay, I don't have any boils, but I may as well have and that… is why I'm typing this while simultaneously French kissing a box of doughnuts.
It's just awful to spend your whole life thinking you're Jessica Simpson only to learn in a startling swirling steamy moment you're way more Marge Simpson.
Trying not to break into sobs I dry off, step into some roomy plaid shorts and take the door mirror down. I then spend about 40 minutes situating the cursed thing in a room that I've converted into a closet in such a strategic way that I can get anything I need in that room without actually seeing my own reflection.
My big ass waddles downstairs and I settle in front of my TV.
Using a remote I flip through channels until I stop on a movie, "Die Another Day." Pierce Brosnan plays James Bond.
While I'm lighting a cigarette I notice a little familiar something in the way Pierce smiles. It's very like the way I smile… Goddamn! My sable-black hair lays exactly like Brosnan's… I sit up.
Suddenly feeling a little 007 I whisper, Brizzle, Bill Brizzle.
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Monday, September 22, 2008
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Current mood:  hopeful
Category: Blogging
Welcome folks, I'm Tim Brizzert and this is Meet The Brizz. Today's guest, joining us via satellite, is Arizona Senator and 2008 presidential candidate John McCain.
I appreciate you joining us on Meet The Brizz today, Senator. I know you're very busy, so let's get started.
Senator McCain, after months of campaigning on the experience thing, it appears you've high-jacked the change message from your opponent Senator Obama. Can you tell the American people, if you are elected president, what exactly it is you will do to bring about change?
Change? I don't need changed. Sinclaire just helped me into a new brief before we went on the air. It was just water. I didn't make poopie.
Are you okay Senator? You seem a little, um… I don't know, tired maybe.
Wait Tim. I think I may be making poopie now.
We're on the air Senator McShit-Your-Pants. I'm sorry, Senator McCain't-Possibly-Be-Serious-About-Leading-This-Nation, but we need to move on. Okay. More than 47 million Americans are presently without health insurance, Senator. Will you be presenting to the American people a comprehensive plan to…
Just the least little dash of wine, Sinclaire, and then I'll need to lie down a while.
Senator McSenile, you're making my job very difficult. Can you try to stay focused?
Brizzert, you don't know difficult. Try being held in a prison camp for five years and forced to watch Here's Lucy, Mayberry RFD and Family Affair over and over. Fuckin' Democrats want to whine about some pussy waterboarding and other possibly questionable interrogation techniques! You all need to watch some reruns of Here Comes the Brides starring Bobby Sherman — and then talk to me about difficult.
Tell me, Sinclaire, is it hot in here or am I crazy?
Senator McCain't-Last-Four-Years-In-Office, Barack Ob…
Did you say barracks? There weren't no fuckin' barr... Watch out MURPHY! Oh no, not you Murphy. Murphy!!! Oh god, Murph.
Senator McCain't-Send-A-Damn-E-mail, John McCain't-Win-Without-A-Lipstick-Wearing-Pitbull, please outline for this MySpace audience your plan for dealing with this tanking economy...
These fuckin' gooks are dropping out of trees!
Good fucking grief, McCooCoo… we're running out of time. Will you just try to answer one question for me? And if you don't mind, Senator, I'd like to go back to the beginning of this interview and on the subject of change…
I'll change the clip in this M16 and blow away every slant-eyed man, woman and child within a…
Senator McCain! We have just a few minutes left, please, please just tell me what your policies are concerning…
I'm warning you, Brizzert! Either I immediately get a nap or the old man gets it…
Okay. Fuck it. We're about out of time anyway, I want to thank you Senator for talking with me.
That, my fellow Americans and friends, wraps up this edition of Meet The Brizz. Please join me tomorrow when I go one-on-one with Illinois Senator Barack Obama.
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Wednesday, September 17, 2008
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Current mood:  thankful
Category: Blogging
Once upon a time in the middle of a long-ass winter, when the snow was asshole deep to a pro basketball team…
Peggy, a woman funnier than all the Golden Girls put together, sat looking out a window and trying to ignore what was already a slew of rowdy boy children. Her boys, particularly Larry, her second born, were getting on her nerves bad.
So whilst gazing out upon a fucking blizzard outside, Peggy did squeeze a bottle of Coke that she was drinking so hard it broke and cut her hand. Three drops of blood fell upon the normally hysterically funny but not today (because this story isn't really about her) woman's lap.
Peggy was bleeding, but dazed with exhaustion. She didn't care. The red upon the jogging pants she wore looked pretty to her. Sighing, she thought to herself, "Would that I had only had a boy child as pure as this snow before me, with lips as red as this blood on my lap, and hair as black as the wood of this window-frame."
Well sure enough, soon after that Peggy had another little boy — but this one very unlike the heathren-ass brood she had already born. This child was as white as new snow, and his lips were as red as a baboon's ass and as delicate as a tiny rose bud and his hair was as black as ebony, blacker than… oh, some damn really black thing.
Peggy therefore called her new boy-child Snow Brizzle.
He would grow up and she would die.
That's right. The woman is deader than Bernie Mac.
When Snow Brizzle was 14, there was another child born somewhere. Oh yeah … in Elizabethtown,,, who was also pretty damn fair and she grew up to be a proud, damn-near-haughty obit writer with a taste for hideous shoes.
The truly ugly shoes don't matter. They aren't relevant. What matters is this girl was high-fallutin' and conceited and could not bear that anyone else could surpass her in beauty.
And I'll tell you what else. She had this cheap-ass looking glass that she found at a Salvation Army store and she discovered when she stood in front of it the damn thing talked. She'd say shit to it like, "Looking glass, looking glass, on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of all?"
And (at least in her mind) the looking glass answered, "Thou, oh Big Breck Blonde, art the fairest of all."
Then she was satisfied, for she knew that the looking glass spoke the truth.
However, Snow Brizzle — though just a trifle her senior — was growing even lovelier with age. It was like the older he got the hotter he got. I swear, the man was lovelier than owl shit.
(See, lovely don't begin to describe it, does it?)
And this one time when the atrociously shod newspaper queen asked her looking glass, "Looking glass, looking glass, on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of all?" the thing answered, "Thou art fairer than all who are here, lady. But more beautiful, still, is Snow Brizzle, as I ween (whatever the hell that means).
Then the mirror said, "Oh yeah, he's got a really nice ass, too, and the man's hung like Barbaro."
Well, BBB was shocked and she turned yellow and green and plaid with envy. And from that hour, whenever she looked at Snow Brizzle, her heart heaved in her breast: she hated the blog legend that much. And her envy and pride grew higher and higher in her heart like a weed, until she had no peace day or night.
So she called upon a Canadian Rocker named Art Carcass who himself wasn't hard on the eyes and asked him, "Seduce the gorgeous Brizzle and hide all of his beauty products. I will no longer have him to deal with. And after you sex him up real good, kill the breathtaking bastard. Yes, dear Art, do kill him, and if it's not too much trouble there, Big Boy, bring me back his lung and liver as tokens."
(I told you she was pissy, and did I mention them brogan-ass shoes she wears?)
The sexy blogging rocker obeyed BBB and he did indeed seduce the lovely and unsuspecting Snow Brizzle. In fact he fucked Brizzle relentlessly up the… um… staircase of Brizzle's home. He threw it to him like Tommy Lee did Pam on that boat.
And while Brizzle was sitting on an ice pack recovering and innocently putting together the beginnings of his Art Carcass Hot-Balls-and-Cool-Butterflies Scrapbook, the Rocker stole every last one of his night creams and took Snow Brizzle's tanning pills and hair spray and everything he could find that might enhance the Brizz's Johnny Depp-ish beauty and threw it all away.
Once that task was finished the Canadian cocksmith and scribe did burst into Brizzle's bedroom and just when Art had drawn his knife and was about to pierce Snow Brizzle's pure little heart, Brizzle began to weep (not that he was a pansy or anything), and he said, "Dearest stud, please, leave me my life and I will run away into the forest, never to show my handsome, angular, strong-jawed face again."
And as Brizzle was so delicate and beautiful, the Rocker did have pity on him and said, "Run away, then, you poor old gay fucker." I mean, he said, "Run away you zesty little jalapeno, you tantalizing glimpse of heaven here on earth."
(I don't know if you knew this or not, but Canadians are pretty good in the sweet talk department).
"Yes," Carcass continued. "Run away, as I fear alone in a vast Internet like this, wild beasts and other horny musicians will devour you for sure. "
I'm not lying. The shit went down exactly like that. It was as if a stone had been rolled from Art's heart. He was joyous that it was no longer needful for him to kill lovely and brilliant and kind and good Snow Brizzle.
And as a young bear just then came running by, Art Carcass stabbed it and afterward cut its lung and liver out and took them to BBB as proof that the comely Brizzle was dead.
(Note to self: when rewriting this describe Carcass as "swarthy." Ooooh, yes! I like me some swarthy.)
The wicked BBB salted, floured and fried the pristine lungs and pink liver of Snow Brizzle and she ate them.
(Oh hell, I am really starting to hate her now. Aren't you?")
Where was I? Oh…
But now the poor Brizzle was all alone in the great Internet, and terrified. He ran as far and as long as his impeccably dressed feet would go until it was almost evening. He then saw a little abandoned-looking house and went into it hoping to find a welcoming place to rest.
Everything about the house was small and neat and cleaner than can be told, but it did not appear abandoned after all. There was a table on which were seven little plates. On each plate there was a little spoon. Moreover, there were seven little knives and forks and seven little mugs. Against the wall stood seven little beds, side by side.
Snow Brizzle was so hungry and thirsty that he ate a little Lean Cuisine (Lean Cuisine because he was watching his weight again) and some bread from each plate and drank a drop of wine out of each mug, for he did not wish to take all from one only. Then, as he was so tired, he laid hisself down on one of the little beds, but none of them suited him. One was too long, another too short, but at last he did find that the seventh one was right, and so he remained in it, said a prayer (which was something BBB's bound-for-hell's ass could consider doing now and then) and went to sleep.
When it was quite dark the owners of the cottage came back. They were seven bloggers who dug and delved in the Internet for ore. They lit seven candles, and as it was now light within the cottage they saw that someone had been there, for everything was not in the same order in which they had left it.
The first blogger, LongEEEvon — a sexy lady who reminded you a little of Sarah Palin, only she'd never killed any animals on purpose — said, "Who has been sitting on my chair?"
The second blogger, another lady, the smart and split-your-sides funny Blue, asked "Who has been eating off my plate?"
The third woman, a blogger with an eye for fabulous and a penchant for zebra print tops named Mischief, wondered, "Who's been taking some of my bread?"
The fourth, the blogging bombshell ~illusionary inquired, "Who has been using my new vibrator?"
The fifth fem fatal, the amiable and adorable Annie, put forth the question, "Who has been watching my Midget Porn DVDs?"
A sixth lady blogger — the sometimes bordering on blasphemy, but I'm not one to gossip, so you ain't heard that from me, Misha — demanded, "Who has been peeing, what looks like every fifteen minutes, in our toilet?"
And the seventh blogger, the only male in this batch of MySpace wonders, the hilariously squeamish about all things gay but still respectful Gordon Lee, said some other shit.
Wait! There weren't seven blog wonders, there were eight. Um… one was late coming home. Yeah. That's it. The out of breath but fabulously talented, poetic, Mountain Woman crowded in next to Gordon Lee and she said some shit too.
Then LongEEEvon looked round and saw that there was a little hollow on her bed, and she said, "Who has been getting into my bed?"
The others came up and each called out, "Somebody has been lying in my bed too!"
But the dude — blog wonder Gordon — he looked at his bed and saw little, dainty, lovely Snow Brizzle, was lying there asleep. Therein, he called out to the others, who came running up and they all cried out with astonishment and brought their little candles and let the light fall on horse-cocked and talented-beyond-belief Snow Brizzle.
"Oh, heavens, oh heavens!" cried they all (including rigorously straight Gordon Lee). "What a specimen of man!" And they were so enchanted that they did not wake Brizzle up, but let him sleep. And Gordon, the seventh of the eight amazing bloggers, he slept with his female companions, one hour with each. And so they passed the night.
When it was morning, Snow Brizzle awoke and was frightened when he saw the curious bloggers. But they all were immediately friendly to him and asked what his name was.
"My name is Snow Brizzle," the awesome sex-machine answered.
"How have you come to our house?" asked blog wonder Blue.
Brizzle told them all that his archenemy, the tasteful-shoe-challenged BBB, had wished to have him killed, but the Rocker Art Carcass had spared his life and he had run for the whole day until at last he had found their dwelling.
The bloggers said, "If you will regale us with stories about your never-bridled and near-blind mother, you can stay with us and you shall want for nothing."
"Yes," said Snow Brizzle, "I will tell you about my mom and her impatience with my little retarded brother's OCD at once."
The bloggers gathered around Snow Brizzle and he did regale them with stories and he did stay with them. He kept all the bloggers in stitches with tales of his mother, but also told them of some sad things that broke their hearts and occasionally threw in some pornographic shit because it helped him climb in the Myspace top blog rankings.
The seven, I mean eight, bloggers all had stories of their own to tell, so one day Snow Brizzle was alone for the whole day. But before they all went to work on their blogs, the good friends and writers warned Brizzle and told him, "Beware of the nasty Paula Mae… we mean BBB… as she will soon know you are here!" They begged him to be sure to let no one in.
Meanwhile BBB — believing she had eaten Snow Brizzle's lungs and liver — could not but think that she was again the first and most beautiful in all of MySpace land (and real literary and shit too) and she went to her looking glass and said, "Looking glass, looking glass, on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of all?"
And the glass answered, "Oh, Obit Queen, thou art fairest of all I see, but over yonder, where the eight blog celebs dwell, Snow Brizzle is still alive and well, and none is so fair as he."
Well BBB was damned astounded, for she knew that the looking glass never spoke falsely. And now she knew, too, that the Rocker had betrayed her and that Snow Brizzle was still alive.
And so she thought and thought again how she might kill the dazzling blogger herself, for so long as she was not the fairest in the whole land, envy would let her have no rest (I swear, she is just like that too). And when Paula Mae had at last thought of something to do, she painted her face, dressed herself like an old peddler-woman (not that that was all that far off from the way she usually dressed) so that she felt no one could have known her.
In this disguise BBB, a.k.a. Paula Mae, went over the mountains to the eight bloggers' house, knocked at their door and cried, "Pretty things to sell! Very cheap, very cheap!"
Snow Brizzle, who was not only hot (HAWT) but a kind and trusting individual, looked out of the window and called out, "Good day, my good woman. What have you to sell?"
"Good things, pretty things," Paula Mae answered all sing-songy-like. "Stay-laces of all colors," she said as she pulled out one which was woven of bright-colored silk.
"I may let the worthy old woman in," thought Snow Brizzle, and he unbolted the door and bought some of the pretty laces.
(I don't know if you knew this, but fags love pretty laces and sequins and crap like that).
"Child," said the old woman, "what a fright you look! Come, I will lace you properly for once."
Snow Brizzle had no suspicion, but stood before her and let himself be laced with the new laces. But the old woman laced so quickly and so tightly that Snow Brizzle lost his breath and fell down as if dead.
"You WERE the most beautiful," said BBB to herself, and thus she ran away.
Not long afterwards, the eight bloggers came home for the evening. But how shocked they were when they saw their dear Snow Brizzle was lying on the ground, and that he neither stirred nor moved and seemed to be dead! They lifted him up, and saw that he was laced too tightly. ~Illusionary ran for scissors and it was she who quickly cut the one cinching in Brizzle's waist (not that his waist needed cinching) and he began to breathe a little and after a while came to life again.
When the eight bloggers-extraordinaire heard what had happened they said, "The old peddler-woman was none other than the wicked BBB! From now forward you must take care to let no one come in when we are not with you."
Across town, the wicked (and a good deal of the time smart-assed) Paula Mae reached home and she hurried to stand in front of her mirror and ask, "Looking glass, looking glass, on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of all?"
And it answered, as before, "Oh, Queen, thou art fairest of all I see, but over at MySpace, where the super bloggers dwell, Snow Brizzle is alive and well, and none is so fair as he."
Well when BBB heard that, all her blood rushed to her heart, for she saw plainly that Snow Brizzle was indeed (or again) alive. "Okay!" she said, "I will think of something that shall really put an end to you. Snow Brizzle, you shall die!"
(Spiteful, spiteful, spiteful.)
Paula Mae made her way onto her sun porch and there she made a very poisonous, kerosene-tainted muffin. On the outside it looked pretty, so that everyone who saw it longed for it, but whoever ate a piece of it must surely die. When the muffin was ready, BBB painted her face, and dressed herself up as a farmer's wife and went back over to the bloggers' house and knocked upon their door.
Snow Brizzle put his head out of the window and said, "I cannot let anyone in! Eight dear bloggers who watch out for me have forbidden it."
"It is all the same to me," answered Paula Mae. "I shall soon get rid of my muffins. There, I will give you one."
"No," said Snow Brizzle. "I dare not take anything."
"Are you afraid of poison?" asked the old woman (who was really BBB, see). "Look, I will cut the muffin in two pieces, you eat the outside of it and I will eat the inside."
The muffin was so cunningly made that only the golden crust was poisoned. Snow Brizzle longed for a muffin, and when he saw that the woman ate part of it, he could resist no longer and stretched out his hand and took the poisonous outer shell. Hardly had he a bite of muffin in his mouth than he fell down dead.
BBB gave him a dreadful look and laughed aloud and said, "White as snow, red as blood, black as ebony-wood my ass! Those bloggers won't be waking you up this time!" Then she said "b-i-o-t-c-h," real hateful-like, and hurried home to her looking glass, where she breathily asked once again, "Looking glass, looking glass, on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of all?"
And the mirror answered at last, "Oh, Queen, in this land thou art fairest of all." Then Paula Mae's envious heart had some rest, so far as an envious heart can have rest.
Later, when the bloggers came home, they found Snow Brizzle lying upon the ground. He breathed no longer and was dead. They lifted him up, looked to see whether they could find anything poisonous, unlaced him, combed his hair, washed him with water and wine — but it was all of no use. The poor blog-guru was dead and he did remain dead.
Gordon Lee and his lady friends laid Snow Brizzle upon a bier and all the bloggers sat round it and wept for Snow Brizzle, wept three days long. Then they were going to bury him, but he still looked as if he were living and still had his angular jaw and pretty red cheeks. Thinking they could not bury Brizz in the dark ground, they had a transparent coffin of glass made so the virtual heart-throb could be seen from all sides and they laid him in it and wrote his name upon it in golden letters, adding that he was the son of a princess named Peggy.
Then they put the coffin out upon the mountain and one of them always stayed by it and watched it. And birds came too, and wept for Snow Brizzle — first an owl, then a raven, and at last a dove or some damn thing with feathers and a beak.
Art Carcass brought his fine swarthy ass by once, too, and remembering the glorious sex he'd exchanged with Snow Brizzle, he sobbed more than a little.
And now Snow Brizzle lay a long, long time in the coffin and he did not change, but looked as if he were asleep, for he was as white as snow, as red as blood, and his hair was as black as ebony… and it was really thick too, like John Stamos' hair.
One day, out of the blue, it happened that a handsome clown by the name of Bloumeister came into the forest and went to the bloggers' house to spend the night. He saw the coffin on the mountain and the beautiful Snow Brizzle within it and read what was written upon it in golden letters.
Then he said to the bloggers, "Let me have the coffin, I will give you whatever you want for it."
But the bloggers answered in unison, "We will not part with it for all the gold in the world."
The clown said, "Let me have it as a gift then, for I cannot live without seeing Snow Brizzle everyday. I will honor and prize him as my dearest possession." As he spoke in this way, the good bloggers took pity upon him and gave him the coffin.
The dashing clown had it carried away by some of his clown friends on their broad, naked shoulders. And it so happened one of them stumbled over a tree-stump, and with the shock, the poisonous piece of muffin (that, I swear, had a kerosene whang to it) which Snow Brizzle had bitten off came out of his throat. And before long he opened his eyes, lifted up the lid of the coffin, sat up, and was once more alive!
"Oh, heavens! Where am I?" the handsome blogging Brizzle cried. The clown, full of joy, said, "You are with me." And he told Snow Brizzle what had happened and said, "I love you more than everything in the world. Come with me to Canada. You shall be my wife… er, significant other."
The clown appeared to packing, if you know what I mean, so Snow Brizzle was indeed willing and he did go with Blou and they had a gay wedding that was a great show and filled with splendor.
But Snow Brizzle's rival, the ever-pissy BBB, was also bidden to the ceremony. She had arrayed herself in beautiful clothes and she went before the looking glass, and said, "Looking glass, looking glass, on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of all?"
The glass answered, "Oh, Queen, of all here the fairest art thou, but Brizzle is fairer by far as I trow."
The wicked woman screamed the word "FUCK!" and she pulled off one of them ugly-assed clodhoppers she all the time wore and threw it at the mirror. The magic glass broke into a million pieces.
Bloumeister taught the innocent and pure Snow Brizzle all the ins and outs of being a clown. He wanted first to teach Brizzle the proper way to juggle a set of balls, and Brizzle a natural when it came to handling balls did catch on quickly.
Blou and Snow Brizzle lived happily ever after and BBB gave up the whole competitive thing and she started treating Snow Brizzle really nice and she never left him smart-alecky comments on any of his blogs, including this one.
The end.
Author's note: On the off chance that you do not know BBB, Art Carcass, Bloumeister and the eight Myspace Wonders mentioned (and linked) in this story, please go at once and introduce yourself. Read their blogs. Befriend and get to know these amazing, gifted and generous people. Each of them have my gratitude, love and respect and I am certain would very quickly have yours.
998,901/2790
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Friday, September 05, 2008
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Current mood:  smitten
Category: Blogging
I need to blow up big.
I need a brizzillion friends and readers.
The thinking behind this being: if I can get BIG BIG BIG, on MySpace and in the blogosphere someone will eventually notice and I'll get a book offer or some shit and I won't have to deal with Sally Vogtlander's hard of hearing 92 year-old ass ever again. And I'll have money for liposuction and hair extensions.
But I need your help. Word of mouth-type help.
So please — if you love me at all — tell anyone and everyone you know about me and this blog. Especially tell lonely, bored people you know. People easily entertained, who don't expect a whole lot and don't mind a few spelling errors.
Also tell anyone male, between the ages of 27 and 50 (but more toward the 27 side of the scale) who works on cars or is, like, a plumber's assistant or a cowboy maybe… yeah, real actual cowboys — definitely tell them. And anyone (in any profession) that maybe you've peed with in a public restroom and discreetly checked out and know for a fact has a big one — please mention me to them.
Don't think too much about why you're checking out your friend's Montanas in public restrooms, just um… look out the corner of your eye and down, and if you see they're sporting an impressive appendage just smile at them and say, "Hey, you should read this blogger I know, Bill Brizzle. Oh man he's funny!" Tell them to send me a friend request immediately. DO NOT tell them I'm a whore and desperate and pathetic and balding and I sometimes have to call my doctor because I have an erection lasting longer than four hours and I don't even take Levitra.
Also tell any and all of your male friends who look good in jeans to read my blog.
Sorry, I got a little distracted.
Um… even if you don't know or care what your friends have in the jeans that they look good in… still, you know, run them my way.
DO NOT tell anyone you know who is super smart or a better writer than me about me because, honestly, my ego can't handle it. And don't bother mentioning me to any Republicans because I don't want to be friends with no Republicans. I will sleep with attractive ones though. Okay, go ahead and tell comely and handsome Republicans, because I like to play this game I invented called "wide stance" with them.
But for God's sake don't just tell hot people. Tell fat people you know with skin conditions like eczema about me, too, because reading is about all they have to do. And tell people taking Prozac, because they aren't getting laid and also have a lot of time on their hands.
It's better if you tell really cute, hot people to befriend me because I like to trick them into having sex with me, but I'll definitely take homely people too.
The object here is numbers. Friend requests. I need a billbillion friends. Look up Margaret Cho's profile and tell all her friends. And if Kathy Griffin has a MySpace page, tell her friends too. I got no problem with stealing someone's friends.
Don't tell any country singers who've written any songs for John McCain's friends because how lame is that? But tell cool people — Democratic and Independent people — that I'm brilliant and hilarious. And people who don't even vote. And some Repblicans. Lie.
Don't tell them I'm a tired old hack pissing and moaning about his glory days. Tell them I'm hip and current and I look exactly like Art Carcass. Tell them I'm smarter than Art and I have a bigger pen… band than he has.
Oh yeah… and do not say anything to people with loose dentures that move around or clack when they talk. Those people annoy me. I mean why don't they get their teeth realigned?
Tell everyone else though. Play on their sympathies if you have to. Tell them about how I'm poor and I have to put Max's Milk Bones on layaway. Tell them about the hair extensions I need.
Listen, don't say anything to any know-it-alls. God, I hate know-it-alls. Like I have this friend who's always coming up with some crap he's read, some study or survey… and he says things like, "It's mainly just homos with little peckers who lisp and that ain't nothing but bull thit if you athk me. Thsupid bull thit!"
Oh yeah, and he says a very high percentage of old, over-horny bloggers stutter. Alstho nnn-nnn-nnot true! I mmm-mmm-mmm-mean, what doths he know any… www-www-wwway?
And the other night he told me plump, sad, not-likely-to-get-laid any time soon men in their fifties are more senile and forgetful than other Amer…
…
…
…
…sorry, I forgot whatever it was I was railing about.
It's all good anyway, because soon all of this won't be necessary as I was recently contacted by a big-deal publishing house. It's called Larry's Vanity Press. I'm not kidding either. It was Larry himself who wrote to me. Larry is the top dog barking at Larry's Vanity Press. I swear, I'm so excited. Lordy, I sooooo like the prestigious sound of the word Vanity. Like Vanity Fair…
This is Larry.
(He says all editors-in-chief at big publishing houses wear hats like that.)
Larry wants me to send him $300, which I am glad to do because he assured me that David Sedaris, Augusten Burroughs and a lot of other writer-type fucks have to pay for ink and advertising and stuff when they first get published.
I'm sure Larry's on the up-and-up, even if that hat is a little unsettling and nothing came up when I Googled him. He said it was because his publishing house is brand new and Google's always behind on their work, but he's sure they will be offering a lot of information about him soon, so will I please just send the goddamn check!
Larry's a little testy. But he knows a lot about books. He shared with me that he's been away for two to five years but he used the time to read everything John Grisham ever wrote. Huh? Huh? He obviously has a lot of money if he can be on vacation for that long, right?
Wait! I'm wrapping this up. Just tell your friends about me. Any of them who read. I do mean ANY of them, ANY one who reads blogs, who likes to laugh and cry and maybe learn and participate a little...
Well, don't tell any really picky people. You know who I mean, smart-ass overly critical type people. Oh man don't you hate a picky, overly critical guy…
Okay… enough Brizzle silliness for one blog.
In all seriousness, I find the hardest thing about all this writing business is the very real need to promote oneself. There's just no way to do that that isn't all "look at me I'm Sandra Dee" and I hate having to do or be that. It's a double-edged sword of sorts. I don't want to do it but then if I don't promote myself and my writing –how's anyone new going to read or maybe even publish it?
I know of a dozen other successful bloggers that got successful by promoting the hell out of themselves but I just find it very very difficult to do. That's why, I am so grateful when someone else does it. When you do.
Friends, readers… all kidding aside, thank you for your help in getting my name out there. For every friend you ever mentioned me to. For putting my banner and code on your pages. For the Photoshopped gifts, the comments, the bulletins, the blogging/writing contests and, well, just for everything.
I am positive it WILL soon pay off. It has already paid off. I have the best, smartest most generous friends in all of MySpace land. My love for all of you and my gratitude are immense. I wish you all wonderful weekends.
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Tuesday, September 02, 2008
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Category: Blogging
Forgive me (readers), for I have sinned. And I'm talking about the worst possible kind of sin. I've committed fashion sin. Numerous times.
I'm so ashamed.
I have no particular remorse about all those times I played naked dodge ball with the devastating Henley brothers or "hide the Lucky Charms" with the tragically weak-chinned Eddie Hutchinson. And I don't feel at all bad about, just after my first divorce, pretending to be forgetful and making trip after trip to an unsuspecting but handsome and oh-so-thorough proctologist.
I've got zero remorse for a mountain of lies, deceptions and espionage I've told, perpetrated and involved myself in over the years. Actually I don't really know what espionage is, but I like the way the word rolls off the tongue and how it sounds sinful.
I've put other gods before Jake Gyllenhaal and occasionally made carved images and likenesses of things heavenly. I also admit to taking the name of Paula Mae in vain on more than one occasion and for some reason, just not being able to keep holy the Sabbath day.
I've not always honored my mother and father, though I usually was pretty nice to Hank.
I've never committed murder, unless you consider torturing and killing songs by Duran Duran in the shower murder.
Let me think… what else?
It says in the good book somewhere "if you burn with lust it is best to take a wife." And -- totally in agreement with that advice -- I have, on occasion, took somebody's wife. I may also have stolen a husband or two. But I had nothing to do with the missing cookies from work.
My point is, I sin. Like, I actually kind of live to bear false witness against my neighbors and I sometimes covet with reckless abandon. Not my neighbor's house, nor his male servant, nor his ox, nor his donkey, but if he has like a really good jawline or an expensive red sports car, I'll covet them and… okay, sometimes his male servant.
Anyway, I have no regrets, remorse or apologies for any of that. I've been no angel where some unimportant things like honesty, commitment and certain shenanigans are concerned.
But, so what? I mean, he (or she) among us who has not burned their frail grandmothers with lit cigarettes out of sheer boredom or woke up with a stray marshmallow pink heart, yellow star or green clover clinging to their sticky dicks can cast the first comment.
But, (sob)… I do feel so bad… about the fashion sins.
Some of them were horrific. Hideous. Not nicely accessorized. I'm woefully sorry. I swear I'm in the shower and crying and scrubbing my skin raw even as I type this.
Okay. Deep breath. Here are ten fashion sins I've committed.
On more than one occasion I have worn parachute pants.
But, unlike Scott Baio, I never once thought the front of them was a dandy place to store a tube of lipstick.
I once wore a leisure suit exactly like this one to a wedding.
Thankfully it wasn't my wedding. Okay, it was. But I burned all the pictures, killed my bride, the wedding party and all the guests so none of you bastards can prove a thing, see, see, you dirty rats…
God in heaven and friends on MySpace forgive me…. I have also… wait… this is hard. I have WORN A MULLET… (sob and continue tear-streaked confession).
I have lost the mullet, but I still, to this day, stand by the above slogan. It always is comforting to know that I'm better than someone.
Where was I? Oh yeah. I had a mullet.
And if I go back far enough I also have to cop to (at least trying) some Elvis sideburns.
Damn. Cut me some slack, people! It was the mid-seventies, for Humperdink's sake! Millions of us men were of the opinion that gluing a ferret on each side of our faces would dramatically improve our chances of getting laid. For some insane reason we thought "mutton chops" were about all we needed to attract endless hoards of horny people. We were wrong. But what they hell, it was worth trying.
I also sported a Tom Selleck mustache.
Not at the same time, I had Brillo Pad sideburns, but I did have one for a time. Needless to say, the chicks creamed.
Though I worked slavishly all my life to set a perfect example for my son, I confess to giving little or no thought to the act of letting him see me in acid washed jeans. Merciful heaven, I even bought HIM acid washed jeans and told him they looked good on him.
Dan is a good son. He has never once mentioned this to me, never thrown it up in my face and doesn't judge me. He whines and carries on about me seducing most of his friends, but then he let me totally get away with the jeans thing. Go figure.
I'm also guilty of… Wait, you better sit down for this one… Okay, I'm also guilty of wearing platform shoes. Ugly platform shoes.
(like there's any other kind) and I've worn T-shirts that say shit. Funny shit.
When I was 15, I owned a shirt that said: "I thought sex was a pain in the ass and then found out I was doing it wrong."
I did. I'm not lying. My mom used to beg me not to wear it in public.
I'll tell you something else. As recently as yesterday I was tempted to buy a shirt that said: "Bad spellers of the world UNTIE!"
Lawdy, that one killed me.
Um… Moving on.
I've owned not one but two bomber jackets.
Why? What the fuck was I thinking?
Last, but certainly not least… Have you ever heard of a man perm?
I had one. And that's all I will say about that.
It's amazing to me how much blogging or maybe just old age has changed me, but it once would have taken serious threats and torture to get me to confess to any kind of wrong or sin -- particularly fashion sins.
But I am changed man now.
For my sins I am remorseful. I am repentant and I believe that I've been forgiven by the not-always-compassionate style gods. I have matured, seen the light. I'm ate up with good fashion sense and taste now. I am righteous and devout when selecting a tie.
And, you maybe didn't know this, but some time back I entered a fashion monastery where I learned to give up all trends and fads of the flesh and clothes that feature slogans. I became a Prada High Priest.
Wait, that's too much, a little too over-dressed. More like this.
Yes. Father Brizzle. And as such, I am opening up my confessional to you.
If any of you would like to admit to some fashion sins of your own, if you have some jelly shoes or leg warmers or Nehru jackets in your past… or, if you wore those huge, stiff bangs… huh? Huh?
If you wish to confess one or more of your own style-fashion sins, I will take your confession and I will absolve you. Don't expect me not to file the information in the back of my mind for future reference to use against you, but I will ask Tim Gunn or some other fuck who thinks he knows shit to forgive your sins and you will be absolved.
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