It’s Christmas Eve and I’m getting drunk on gin martinis. God Bless Us, Every One! That’s how Dickens wrote that last line, with every word capitalized. With a fucked-up childhood, married to a depressive fat wife and saddled with a beard that Saddam Hussein would envy, Dickens can be excused for overwriting. Posters on CL are another story. But I’m not bitchkevetching, no; I love the world and all the people in it.
Let’s talk about love. Lemme tell you what I love, for you see, that’s what gin martinis do: they bring you love. By the way fuck vodka martinis, except dirty vodka martinis. Gin is king.
Anyhoo, love.
I love words. Here’s a bunch: Pentecostal, litany, iniquity, straddle, gin, spectrum. It could go on, but meh. Meh is also a great word.
The Simpsons. But it’s obvious. If you don’t like the Simpsons then you are a stupid pudfucker. Not that there is anything wrong with fucking puds.
A great bassline. I mean a bass where you can hear the ringing of the rotosounds, not those mushy techno basslines that they stole from reggae. Bastards. A bassline should roar like a live version of “Won’t Get Fooled Again” or they should pump like “I Wish” They are no good bassplayers anymore. Prove me wrong, kids, prove me wrong.
Warm skin. Mostly found on living people. God, I miss it.
Arguing. Debating is great. There are people who get very upset when a debate breaks out, especially if it is controversial. And lame-ass racist comments on CL are not a debate; that’s a hit and run. Fucking cowards.
Walking. Perambulations, God, I’m peripatetic. Just like Leopold Bloom, I like to walk the streets of San Francisco, (a Quinn Martin production) and see the pumpin’ life this city has. I know it’s not New York. All hail lost, lovely, sad little New York.
Drink. I’m not a booze hound or a hophead or a pothead, or an acidhead, or a Xeater, although they’re all fun. I don’t do anything in excess, but man do I love a drink. The look, the smell, the taste, the feeling: it’s all great. Raise your glass, folks. It’s human nature. Teetotalers, get out of here.
References. I love catching them, and I love making them. Nothing is original. Everything references something else. It’s what makes us human.
And one more thing. Hmmmm. What was it? Was it church? No. Long walks on the beach? Nope. Oh yeah, it’s sex. God bless twats and cocks and tits and asses, and spooging and juicing. It’s dirty and dangerous and sooo much fun. Like you didn’t know; It powers the entire Craig’s List.
That’s it. Hmm, now what did Santa bring moi. Is that a bottle of Bombay Safire? Oh bless you Santa, you jolly fat fuck. Let me get the shaker. Sit down Santie, I already have the glasses chilled. Merry Christmas! I don’t believe in Christ, but I believe on Christmas. Lame isn’t it? Cheers to you and yours.