Shalom and Shazam, you motherfucker you. I dunno what the fuck is up or going down with you anymore (or if maybe smartphone DM's just ain't what they used to
be) but I gotta say:
It's been a bit of a bitch getting in touch with you lately. And far too long since we actually touched one another.
(Platonically, of course.)
I miss your Ashkenazi ass, is all I'm saying, and can only hope you're still the same fat and fatuous, ruddy, robust, hale, and fabulously wealthy well-met fellow I
left stranded in a drunken abject stupor in that derelict dysyntery-inducing Guatemalan bordertown bordello lo so many moons ago.
(Six serious moons ago, to be precise.)
Seriously, how you been holding up there, bro? Because I all-of-a-suddenly kinda/sorta regret abandoning you like that, you know? Let's face it, though. That was one
helluva hard day's/hamstrung night, yo. I had to walk away and wash my hands of you (my coldest buddy, boldest pal, and most intrepid emissary) because I could no
longer grin, bear, or disguise my disgust watching you fence with your coke mirror, do-se-do with your inner demons, and roll around on that forensically-filthy black-lit linoleum
floor like a sub-equatorial World Cup soccer player looking to invoke a yellow-carded respite from the catholic scrutiny of less atheltic sheeple.
For the love of Obama, Gerry. You don't still blame or wanna shame me for pulling out of that fakakta fucking crime scene, do you? I mean, if you
could've known yourself at that moment you would've shown yourself the goddamned door. Trust me, nigga. If you coulda reckoned the way you were behaving
yourself --a proverbially deplorable gringo sweating dumdum bullets like an undercover Trump-supporter on Cinco de Mayo day-- you woulda forgotten yourself,
Anyway, when I finally found your besotted rotten ass --wound up in the fetal position and suckling to tap the neo-natal teat off of a bottle of knock-off Robitussin-- speaking
in missive tongues and batshit Esperanto like Dutch Schultz in his death throes trying to incite a riotous fight for the right to party with
every Ba-donk-a-donkish Hispanic harlot who wisely sashayed away while politely dismissing your abominable popinjay... Well, I decided right then and there the time was
right to say "vaya con dios" to your frantic, feculent, and festering facade with a rather impolite yet festive Irish Goodbye.
Like I already kinda/sorta said already: I now regret ghosting your ass like that. I probably shoulda stuck around and saw you through your woefully drug-addled and
mortifying doldrums as you shred and shed the remaining remnants of your once distinguished and redeemable soul like a consecrated cowl of Benedictine austerity, but... The
regrettable moment I witnessed you desperately trying to stick your shrimpy limp dick through a half-depleted roll of globalized toilet tissue in order to make your cockless jock seem more
transcendent and valiant than humanly possible?
Well, lemme put it this way: I can totally understand if you're still a little butthurt about the whole situation, Gerry, and yet...
Need I say more? Must I really demean and debase you further and then inevitably suffer more of your reckless and supercilious foolishness before I recieve a sincere apology to
call my own? To say I'm on tenterhooks awaiting your troglodytic ressurection would have to be the understatement of all overstatements, my long lost friend, so... Gimme a
righteous update, for chrissakes, and try to honestly answer me a few pointed questions.
Have you been minding your soul and soma while espying and keeping your eye on all the trendsetting social-media palaver since we parted? Have you been planking and
tongue-scraping and intermittently fasting like a savvy 21st century muckraker? Ingesting salient information while steering clear of FoxNews and staying out of trouble with all
the sudorific sweet stuff readily available on the Silk Road/Darknet marketplace?
I sure as heck hope not.
For if the Abrahamic God of fine wine, capricious fire, and unhinged revenge and jealousy truly helps the man who helps himself... Well, I guess I should mustly trust that you've been
spending our time estranged busking with a Jew's Harp (just to be obnoxious) preaching the prosperity gospel (just to be unctuous) and deep-dicking the peons (to
keep up with the Kardashians) while spurning the recent Black Lives Matter/#MeToo/LGBTQ socialist movements as unmerited heaven-sent manna for listless
and disenfranchised ne'er-do-wells walking around with mastigated sticks of sugarcoated alms stuck in their asinine assholes and gumming up their fag-haggity/hellbent
I'm really gonna need you to ease my writer's-blocked mind here, Gerry. Pray tell me you've been keeping your kept wife and disenchanted children chained under solid rock
and thrown-away key whilst keeping your insatiable May-December mistress in furs and heels and champagne cocktails under mirrored chandeliers...
Tell me you've been practicing to demonstrate all of your unseemly powers of arbitrage, skullduggery, and shuttle diplomacy in order to establish a phallocentric/psychosexual corn
maze for everyone Left Behind, shaken, stirred, and bedraggled in your perverted and unslakable wake; ROFLYAOOL as they struggle, in vain, to navigate your economically
turbulent and morally degenerate hellscape with no hope of escape...
Of course, you have. Seeing that I've already seen how far you're willing to go for a little bit of cola in your nose (and a whole lotta cola parada in
your lap) I'm dreadfully excited to witness what you're willing to do for suborn power, pecuniary prestige, and political influence. Now that the book is finally
fiinshed and esthetic immortality is within our brass ring reach, that is. If you know what I'm saying, chief.
Of course, you do. Because you're my goddamned literary agent, bro. A thoroughly un-talented/ego-stroking/gun-toting/ire-stoking double-dealing sycophant, maladjusted
malefactor, habitual prevaricator, and incorrigible goddamned parasite. You're a dark-prince of a douchebag with bedbugs for blood who's utterly capable of perpetrating any
and all crimes and misdemeanors (from petty treason to murder most foul) against the public's pleasure on behalf of your beloved clientele's personal impatience.
Everybody who knows you knows this about you, you know, and yet nobody you really care about really gives a sharing CareBear shit in the woods about how you go about
skinning the cats, fleecing the sheep, gelding the top bananas, and beseeching the ethics-breaching Boston Brahmin to reach the Elysian beach so long as you're sending the
clowns, bringing the noise, and endorsing the chickity-checks before they bounce and wrickity-wreck us all. Before the homeward-bound bacon, as they say, goes from the
vulture-capitalist frying pan, as it will, into the all-consuming dumpster fire we eminently, but mostly erroneously, importune as social egality. As the majority of we
vainglorious liberal lickspittles are wont to do.
Or, I dunno, some shit like that. Because "some shit-like-that" is who you are and what you do, Gerry. Profusely, profanely, profoundly, and somewhat
Am I right?
Of course, I am. You're renowned and recognized (if not respected) far and wide as a cum-swallowing catspaw and devoutly diabolical dogsbody for a whole assortment of sordid
reasons. Not least of which is your fastidious and uncompromising ability to gaslight and/or shmooze a room full of tableau-vivant suckups and claptrapping attention whores until
you've gotten what you come for. Fussing to hustle these elite cultural and financial magisters until they lose their goddamned wits, ungird their dilapidated
loins, and give up their determined grips upon the self-loathing fiscal and emotional autonomy they insist on carrying, like sacks of rotten potatoes, to their
For example; I can always count on you to stomp into a hoity-toity social gathering with your retro-ridiculous guayabera/bowling-shirt strategically unbuttoned; unceremoniously
exposing the stomach-churning, yet mesmerizing, grotesquery of your hirsute gynecomastia as it blasphemes your 18 Karat Star of David medallion; flapping your lips to beat the
band and bankrupt the bilious billfolds of these billionaire benefactors to our benefit.
It's a beautiful thing, that thing that you do. Because --in other words, in the end, and as opposed to say; responsibly reining yourself in and tip-toeing that long and
winding/long-winded/twelve-stepped road of cold rolled-away stone that could maybe lead your spastic/nasty sphincter away from glory-holed
temptation and slalom your everlasting soul towards solemn redemption, holistic benevolence, and elegant relevance-- you always manage to double down on all the
decadent debauchery (only tacitly afoot prior to your arrival) and expertly utilize your supercilious guile to implement your bright idea of a de
Yes. Even as you're raising Cain and rattling sabers and burning bridges with your legendary fashion faux pas and latent sociopathy, you never fail to wrangle the
essential support and elicit the fundamental subsidies we need to proceed. By diverting scrutiny and common sense (away from one altruistic cause or dother in order to
con the potentially volcanic but currently dormant resources of the higher and mightier pilots and connoisseurs of our cultural zeitgeist) into funding and facilitating the
likes of my own Philistine and self-righteous causa sui.
All of which, of course, is precisely why I want you and need you so badly right about now, Gerry. It's also why --dare I say it?-- that I'm in love with you,
Okay, love might be stretching it a bit, Gerry, but don't fret. As the great and terrible Meatloaf once beautifully sang:
Two out of three ain't bad.
Am I right?
Of course, I am. Nevertheless, and enough with the politesse, because it's high time we came together once more (dark and light in tandem at last!) and focused our
respective powers of persuasion upon the looming task at hand. That being: Namely, gamely, and shamelessly promoting ANTAGONY as essential textbook/Ten Commandment-esque/Avenged
Sevenfold-ish required reading that covers all the acute and obtuse angles and corners of our contintental divide.
You with me, Gerry, or against me?
Do you wanna be a Good person --or-- do you wanna become a Great man? Because, semantics aside, the two notions are mutually exclusive.
So... Are you ready to put the hermetic seal on your greatness --or-- are you already content with your meager but hedonistic obscurity?
I guess it doesn't matter what your answer is, really, because here's what I've got in mind for a kickass prelude to our kiss-ass presentation already:
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