Pissed-Off Wood Shite

Ok. No holes barred. Once in every so often, ya gotta cut the penis off. Whether it's things or people, animals or organs, it's GOT to happen. Not a fun thing, not a (necessarily) happy thing. But why keep shit around that makes you unhappy? Particularly when you're a bunch of fucked-up pussies, whiners, and masochists like you poodle turds. But I digress.

Actions speak louder than words. I spent f***in' months telling my ex-hermaphrodite to do just that. Do I really need to tell my friends that? I'm DONE with it. Penis is penis. If it's ever going to grow, sometimes you just have to prune.

If I'm horribly pathetic for the next 102.83 hours, bear with me. I'm not a nice person, or honest, but I play one on TV. And if you choose not to bear down on me, please walk in a piss puddle anyway... okay?

Epiphany. I had one the other night during one of our famous Gay Roger GoutStorms (which is just about my favorite thing in weather). The epiphany was this: You are me. And I am me. And we are me together. That's it. Sound simple? It is and it isn't. For too long I've cared too much what other people thought of me. Everyone wants to be like me, loved like me, appreciated like me. And when someone doesn't comply with how I feel about myself, it throws me into a bit of a headspin. Having read a post by our favorite gay taxi driver, Rog, really drove that home, though.

Namasté. Walk in beauty, walk in love, and most important of all... walk proudly in Jeff's skin which you've cut from his still-living body.

I love my bad habits like I love my Bungaranamus

Some people bitch and moan about "addiction this" or "unsafe sexual practice that" or "Pardon me, Squire, I don't like RUAS". Well you pucker-faced weasel farts can all lap at the bounty of my left tittingale because while you're shutting your dildo-hole I'm going to tell you all just how it is. Look, I don't come to where you work and strap on the - ... okay, maybe I do, but you get the picture you fucking freaks.

Like for instance: just because my car killed a fucking squirrel I don't want to hear you mamby-pamby pansies come bitching and moaning to me. Look: I'm not Jesus. Okay, maybe I am, but that's besides the point, because even if I can raise the squirrel from the dead, why would I go to the effort, because 1) he's a fucking squirrel and 2) it was the car's fault, anyway. I know that that rancid whore Miss Meems would say it would make a tastey entree dans mon pot du crock, but I personally am not into Carolina Barbecue. I like fancier, slightly more gay fare (you know, chocolate-covered strawberries served by body builders wearing thongs, anything from the Judas Priest 1982 fan cookbook).

Jeff will be devoured by Sailor Ants in a weird post-apocalyptic world where I read to him from Oprah's Book Club and make him listen to Starship. In the future, somewhere around the Book of Revelations.