My nemesis Misty LaRue, who left town last weekend on a Goddess retreat; a strange ritual where she and a bunch of other desperate yentas gather in the woods near the 405 Freeway to don white chiffon robes and dance around a tree chanting while the head yenta tells them all how empowered they are as she processes their credit card payments. Any weekend Ms. LaRue spends outside of my realm of consciousness is a good one, but on this occasion I was asked to look after her manic hellhound Violet (a mixed breed that is a cross between a cocker spaniel, a three-toed sloth and a Tasmanian Devil). It's always an adventure to have Violet spend a visit, especially on this occasion because when Ms. LaRue dropped the dog off, she informed me that Violet had a mild case of the runs. Unfortunately, what Ms. LaRue refers to as "the runs,"most competent medical professionals call "violent projectile diarrhea."And (since the closest Violet comes to being housebroken is running madly through my rooms until in one way or another she breaks my house) by the time Violet's Mommy came to pick her up, my formerly pristine shag carpeting looked like a swamp situated on the outskirts of Mordor. Far from apologizing, Ms. LaRue was still in full Goddess mode when she came to collect Violet and claimed that Violet's Hershey Squirts contained the aura of Zeus' wife Hera. I thought that was ironic because according to all the Greek myths I've read, she used to shit all over him too.
Harmony Sanchez and Tiffany Caccoyannis, two hot chicks with whom my beloved pug Winston and I went on a double date. As we dined and the two young ladies were oohing and ahhing over Winston, I decided to define the respective statuses of my dog and me by disclosing that one of my favorite pastimes is to assert my sexual power by masturbating in my home office while Winston is forced to watch. I like to add to the thrill by noting that Winston's testicles were hacked off by an unsympathetic veterinarian before we met (presumably on a card table set up in a Tijuana garage), so I like to sadistically wave my junk in his face to remind him who the Real Man in the household is. My story didn't have the anticipated effect on Misses Sanchez and Caccoyannis, who responded with horror at the tale and gently cradled Winston in their arms while lovingly stroking his underbelly as Winston's right hind leg mysteriously vibrated like a neck massager purchased by a middle-aged divorcee to use while watching the hunks on The Bachelorette. Winston may have gotten more action than I did that night, but I got even with him when we returned home and I pounded my pud while he was on the other side of the sofa. It wasn't as good as usual though because he was distracted by reading text messages from the ladies arranging another get-together without me. He obviously doesn't understand anything about sexual fulfillment.
Andrea Hartman, who sent me an online article titled The upside of insomnia: how sleep deprivation aids creativity in which musicians explain how their inability to sleep aids in their creativity. Ms. Hartman asked me "could this be the source of your creative genius?" My answer to that is no; I love being asleep, primarily because while I'm asleep I can't have contact with people like Andrea Hartman. My genius is most prominent when I am well-rested and best able to artistically express the horrors in my life due to my interactions with the nudniks and boll weevils that populate it. I tell you, it's enough to keep me up at night.
"¯Crispy" Bacon. My weight has been creeping up on me over the last couple of months so I decided to submerge myself back into the diet I successfully lost 60 lbs. on four years ago. This essentially means living on apples and bottled water but if it gives me a silhouette that makes the ladies happy, so be it. The only person who seems to have a problem with my stepping outside wearing anything that isn't held up by an elastic waistband is Mr. Bacon, who (when told of my new regimen) tried to undermine my success by taunting "Jonny, yield to temptation. Brent's Deli is calling you!" Personally, I have never set foot in Brent's Deli so I suspect that the establishment is actually calling out to Mr. Bacon and he's trying to get me to accept the charges. Nonetheless, he insisted that something called the Black Pastrami Reuben would be worth the angioplasty that comes with it. "Black pastrami" sounds to me like something I found behind an old bottle of ketchup when I'm cleaning the refrigerator but if that's what floats Mr. Bacon's boat, I'll be happy to watch him scarf one down as I nibble on an apple and sip on a bottle of water. He'll die happy and I'll give the ladies something to look at during his funeral while the pallbearers are struggling to get his over-sized coffin off the hearse.
Bro Joe. I made another of my delightful Facebook cover photos this week, this one depicting me duking it out in the ring with Rocky Balboa as the flotsam and jetsam of humanity that I associate look on from ringside while Enemies List favorite Mara Marini officiates as the referee. Ms. Marini was delighted with the depiction, pointing out that her outfit in the illustration was "almost like (her) referee costume this Halloween." I discussed her ensemble of erotic outfits on these pages a couple of weeks ago so when she brought up the subject again, I offered to make a catalogue of images of her in kinky garb, in which I would purchase for her any costume that wasn't already in her closet (I felt secure in making the offer because judging from the stuff she's described as hanging in there, she already has a bigger inventory than Western Costume). Alas, Facebook is a public forum and as I was negotiating the deal with Ms. Marini, Joe piped in that he'd like the same offer because he needed some new clothes, claiming that his entire wardrobe is "tank tops, gym shorts, my red satin jacket, and my naughty/nice list" (the last referring to a disturbing costume he put together last Christmas). I am the first to agree that Joe desperately needs some new duds to keep from sullying the Mullich name, but I've already spent my philanthropy budget for the year on costumes for Ms. Marini. I'll never let a needy person down if I can help it though, so I'll be happy to donate one of the naughty schoolgirl outfits that are just sitting in my warehouse until Ms. Marini's restraining order against me expires and I can start having packages delivered to her place of residence again. Maybe it will work out for Joe because once the men start getting a glimpse of him in that short plaid skirt and school tie, he may turn someone's head enough to want to buy him a whole new wardrobe. I just hope his new Sugar Daddy isn't some pervert who's turned on by tank tops, gym shorts, red satin jackets, and Joe's naughty/nice list. That's what started this mess in the first place.
Thanks to all who expressed sympathy over the death of my Mom last week. Your kind words and prayers were much appreciated.