Pretty much, I don’t have anything to blog about but I’m all like, “Why should that stop me from writing anything?” So it don’t. As you can see, or read, or have read to you in a sexy James Mason as God voice, I’m writing nonetheless.
It’s like when you have nothing to do but the book you’re reading is way over there, and VH1 is showing I Love the 80’s for about the fudillionth time, so you decide that you’re going to steal your neighbors lawnmower and cut your lawn in a baseball diamond design after getting lacquered on paint thinner and margarita mix.
When the cops pull you over going 7 miles an hour down the middle of the interstate in your neighbors riding mower and your breath stinking of Jimmy Buffet meets This Old House, you realize you’ve hit bottom.
So you dedicate yourself to yourself in prison. You start by bench pressing stacks of Bibles. Then you move on to benching lesser prison bitches. By the time you’re getting a crying clown tattooed on the whole of your back you can tear cell doors open with your still delicately deft classically trained pianist fingers.
A pianist to prisoner outreach program (Concerts for Convicts) takes notice of this an enrolls you in their education program. All seems to be going well until you perform Chopsticks as a joke to warm up the crowd at the annual prison rodeo. You had no way of knowing that Chopsticks was the trigger song that the Russians had brainwashed you in responding to.
The next few years are a haze of cigarettes, superettes, and marionettes as you implant yourself as the successor to take over as Kermit the Frog’s muppetteer. Once you make it onto national television you can begin to sing the song that Americans have learned subliminally for dozens of years. As soon as that song is sung, you’ll be one government overthrow away from fulfilling your mission and eating the cyanide capsule that has some how stayed in the shoe that you have somehow managed to hold onto lo these many years.
My baloney has a first name….
