Your beloved correspondent presenting Glenn Simon with a framed cover of The Boob Cup

Glenn "Piece of Shit" Simon, with whom I brunched on Super Bowl morning. 2017 started out fantastically with my not laying eyes on Mr. Simon for a couple of months but our Sunday meeting allowed me to finally present him with his Christmas gift from last year: a framed cover of the Hack Werker penny dreadful entitled The Boob Cup, a novella which is loosely based on Mr. Simon's life. Mr. Werker is the author for whose work I famously provide the cover art and while I find it always takes a strong stomach to skim his narrative for illustration ideas, this one was especially hard to get through. The story depicts Mr. Simon taking residence in an apartment in the same building as a gorgeous young woman who become sexually obsessed with him. Tragically, her feelings are not returned because Mr. Simon's affections are directed only at the porcelain mammary gland of the title, leading her to a series of graphically-depicted sleazy and unfulfilling sexual escapades with characters who bear an uncanny resemblance to the author Hack Werker (this is a hallmark of all of Mr. Werker's writings), making her feel more worthless and self-loathing than ever (which I'm told is a common trait among Mr. Werker's sexual companions). Her longing for Mr. Simon ultimately drives the heroine into a suicidal despair in which she plots revenge against the cup. This leads to the finale showing Mr. Simon, the heroine and the cup atop the Golden Gate Bridge (the only sequence in the book which could be described as remotely interesting) in which she threatens to shoot him, the cup, herself, or possibly all three unless he proclaims his love for her. The cup finally dispatches its rival by pouring some of Simon's life-sustaining alcohol that it carries onto the bridge's pavement, causing the heroine to slip and fall to her death in the San Francisco Bay. It's all highly implausible, fiercely self-indulgent and ultimately pretty boring. It really captures Mr. Simon's essence.

Eddie Frierson exacting revenge

My longtime acquaintance Eddie Frierson, who hosted a Super Bowl party at his cabin located on the outskirts of town. Mr. Frierson originally hails from the deep south so the only food he had to provide his hungry guests was deep-fried possum in heavy gravy, a repast that doesn't agree with my heart-healthy diet. So I only stayed to view the first half, watch the half-time show with Lady Gaga, and masturbate in the outhouse after watching the half-time show with Lady Gaga before making my farewells to go home and chow on something that wouldn't send my cholesterol into the pressure cooker zone. Alas, as I left the do the Atlanta Falcons (for whom Mr. Frierson was rooting passionately) were enjoying a heavy lead and the last thing my host said to me before I sped away was "If the Birds {an endearing nickname he sometimes uses for the Falcons} lose, I'll know who to blame." As soon as I left, the game descended into an historic meltdown which saw the Birds (née Falcons) lose to the New England Patriots in overtime. The moment that the rout was over, I knew that Mr. Frierson was constructing a voodoo doll to punish me for taking my "good magic" out of his cabin to ensure the Falcons' loss. I'm not overly worried because he's made many voodoo dolls to vex me in the past and they rarely inflict any more discomfort than a dull headache and a few nights featuring sex dreams with Kevin James before Mr. Frierson moves on to some other diversions. But hindsight always being twenty-twenty, I wish that I'd stayed to eat the fucking possum.


The increasingly annoying Lisa Glass, who posted an article from the Washington Post, no less, saying that a boy in Texas found 23 rattlesnakes inside his toilet. I have always found going to the bathroom to be a terrifying experience under the best of circumstances. Now that I have Ms. Glass to point out to me that there's a strong possibility that deadly vipers will assail my anus as I'm dropping the kids off at the pool makes me inclined to want to hold in any bowel movements until I explode. It will be messy death but anything's got to be better than sitting on a toilet waiting to be surprise-attacked from below by venomous reptiles. My only hope would be if the snakes made their assault after I had visited Mr. Frierson's house for a meal of deep-fried possum. Only then would I have the ammunition to launch a counter-attack that would make those slimy bastards regret the day they'd been born.

A typical scene from Jonny's jet-setting lifestyle

My celebrity crush Frances Fisher, who noted random videos were appearing on her Facebook wall comprised of photos from her glamorous and love-filled life. I would console Ms. Fisher not to be concerned and to look at the bigger picture. If someone were to purloin images from my life to put together in video form, they would find nothing but a few digitized snapshots taken from the security camera in my bathroom of me sitting on the toilet sadly looking at Internet porn (contact me privately if you want to know why I need a security camera in my bathroom, but you'd better have a strong stomach to hear the full story). And now that I've been subjected to Ms. Glass's preceding entry that my toilet is filled with deadly rattlesnakes, I can't even enjoy that pathetic diversion anymore. It's dawned on me that I don't have anyone editing together videos of episodes from my life because nobody wants to see any of the nightmares that I live through on a daily basis. And after reviewing the video from my bathroom security camera, I can safely say that you don't know the half of it. So I advise anyone who has it in mind to harass Ms. Fisher with surreptitiously-made videos that you're going to have to come through me first. And after you see the kind of raw footage I'll be sending you, you'll be sorry you ever learned Adobe Premiere. Nobody stalks my celebrity crush except for me.

Bonus material

My two-time #1 enemy of the year Jesse Merlin, who posted this photo containing "bonus footage" from the film Sex Boss in which he played the title character. I have no idea of the context in which this photo occurs but it does provide me with the disconcerting reality that Mr. Merlin (R) has the ability to give an even more alarming appearance than the one he usually provides to the world. Mind you, I have no objections to anyone altering their look if it makes them feel better about themselves but the image of Jesse Merlin with long, flowing blonde hair would seem to be a hallucination that one would have after reading Rapunzel on LSD. But now that I think of it, I really have no way of knowing if Mr. Merlin's natural hair color is the dusky brunette to which I'm accustomed or the bleached blonde in this photo. The only way to really be sure would be to check his pubes, but I'd need to be on LSD to be able to do that. Maybe I'll try that tonight when I'm reading Rapunzel to try and drop off to sleep.

Hey! Nothing about Trump today!