Unmentionable Incidents and a Lapse into Solipsism
Boy, that incident sucked. I mean, it would suck, if it had happened. Thank God nothing that unmentionable ever happened. Or that incident-like.
Perversely, this may now be my favorite part of the Follies: the part where Amish comes out onstage and stares blankly into the crowd while trying to remember his lines. Or, actually, it's just knowing that that moment is coming. This isn't an insult—he's not as illiterate as ryan, even if he is too good to read the blog. It's just so fucking funny to remember the Irish Wake, and Amish with that notebook piece of paper barely hidden behind a Bible, and the "Episcop—Epistopol—Epistolaryan—Epis—Episqua—"
We need an Amish standin for the first two nights and I have failed to call Rominger. Obviously, I also failed to post police reports. I am a big failure. A big one. A fucking big failure! If you need some envelopes mailed on time, do not call me. If your wife is going into labor and you are holed up in a squalid mud-and-thatch political prison cell somewhere deep in a Romanian forest, and you expect me to remember to stay sober so I can drive your wife to the hospital, then I am not your man.
In Cedar Falls, I told Sarah about the newfound popularity of dollar-bin ancient beers here, spearheaded by Goathead. The tastes of the 70s. And she laughed and was like, "Like Old Style?" And I was like "Ha ha ha! Actually, that's exactly right."
That story is funny in my head. Where it counts. Where all of you live. Because you're all figments of my imagination, right? Right. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Now get naked.
Let me say one more thing about the Follies: if I ever get back on that stage after this year, it will only be because Dave Paxton has agreed to let Undead Presidents perform. And that includes the stovepipe hat that shoots roadkill entrails and stillborn cat embryos into the crowd. It also includes Kevin, nude with white hair, as Streakin General Washington (or me: Streakin Abe Linkin? It rhymes!). And a girl has to dress up as Betsy Ross and have sex with a mountain lion on a bed sheathed in the American flag that is suspended from the ceiling and twirls around, over the crowd.
This just in, from an email between me and DHS. I've written to them before about their fucktarded website with its broken links and jacked up blank pages.
Me: Do you have a telephone number? I can’t find oine anywhere on the site, unless I want to report child abuse. The Contacts button still summons a blank page.
Them: To report child abuse you may call 1/800-362-2178 or the local Department of Human Services Office in the county where the alleged abuse took place.
Fuck!
Perversely, this may now be my favorite part of the Follies: the part where Amish comes out onstage and stares blankly into the crowd while trying to remember his lines. Or, actually, it's just knowing that that moment is coming. This isn't an insult—he's not as illiterate as ryan, even if he is too good to read the blog. It's just so fucking funny to remember the Irish Wake, and Amish with that notebook piece of paper barely hidden behind a Bible, and the "Episcop—Epistopol—Epistolaryan—Epis—Episqua—"
We need an Amish standin for the first two nights and I have failed to call Rominger. Obviously, I also failed to post police reports. I am a big failure. A big one. A fucking big failure! If you need some envelopes mailed on time, do not call me. If your wife is going into labor and you are holed up in a squalid mud-and-thatch political prison cell somewhere deep in a Romanian forest, and you expect me to remember to stay sober so I can drive your wife to the hospital, then I am not your man.
In Cedar Falls, I told Sarah about the newfound popularity of dollar-bin ancient beers here, spearheaded by Goathead. The tastes of the 70s. And she laughed and was like, "Like Old Style?" And I was like "Ha ha ha! Actually, that's exactly right."
That story is funny in my head. Where it counts. Where all of you live. Because you're all figments of my imagination, right? Right. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Now get naked.
Let me say one more thing about the Follies: if I ever get back on that stage after this year, it will only be because Dave Paxton has agreed to let Undead Presidents perform. And that includes the stovepipe hat that shoots roadkill entrails and stillborn cat embryos into the crowd. It also includes Kevin, nude with white hair, as Streakin General Washington (or me: Streakin Abe Linkin? It rhymes!). And a girl has to dress up as Betsy Ross and have sex with a mountain lion on a bed sheathed in the American flag that is suspended from the ceiling and twirls around, over the crowd.
This just in, from an email between me and DHS. I've written to them before about their fucktarded website with its broken links and jacked up blank pages.
Me: Do you have a telephone number? I can’t find oine anywhere on the site, unless I want to report child abuse. The Contacts button still summons a blank page.
Them: To report child abuse you may call 1/800-362-2178 or the local Department of Human Services Office in the county where the alleged abuse took place.
Fuck!
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