Shalom and Shazam, you motherfucker you... I dunno what the fuck is up or down anymore, if maybe smartphones and 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. I miss your Ashkenazi ass, is all I'm saying, and can only trust you're
still the same ruddy, robust, hale, and fabulously wealthy well-met fellow I left stranded in a drunken abject stupor in that derelict and dysyntery-inducing
Guatemalan bordertown bordello lo so many moons ago.
(Six serious moons ago, to be precise.)
Seriously, bro. How you been holding up there, yo? Because I all-of-a-suddenly kinda/sorta regret that I abandoned you like that, you know? Let's face it, though. That was
a hard day's/hamstrung night and I only walked away and washed 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 the filthy and forensically black-lit
floor like a sub-equatorial World Cup soccer player looking to invoke a yellow card.
For the love of Obama, Gerry. You can't still blame me or shame me for splitting town, can you? I mean, you shoulda seen yourself, bro. Behaving yourself like the proverbially
deplorable Gringo, sweating dumdum bullets like an undercover Trump-supporter on Cinco de Mayo. When I finally found you --wound up in the fetal position and suckling to
tap the teat off of a bottle of knock-off Robitussin while speaking in missive tongues and batshit Esperanto (like Dutch Shultz in his death throes) trying to
incite your shrimpy limp pecker to fight for the right to party with every Ba-donk-a-donkish Hispanic harlot who happened to sashay away (while politely
dismissing your abominable popinjay) as you shred and shed the remaining remnants of your once distinguished and redeemable soul like a consecrated cowl of Benedictine
austerity-- I decided then and there it was time to say sayonara to your frantic/feculent/festering facade with a rather impolite Irish Goodbye.
I'm regret that shit and I'm truly sorry, Gerry. Would totally understand if you're still a little butthurt about the whole situation, and... Well, need I say more? Must I really suffer
any more of your unhinged foolishness? For 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 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 Fox News and staying out of trouble with all the sudorific
sweet stuff readily available on the Silk Road/Darknet market?
Well, I sure as heck hope not. For if the Abrahamic God truly helps the man who helps himself, and if there's any pure injustice left in this wicked world of His, or depraved inhumanity left
in that foul and corrupted heart of yours, then I 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 gapes.
Indeed. 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 rock
and key whilst keeping your insatiable May-December mistress in high-heels and champagne cocktails under mirrored chandeliers... Assure me that 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 now willing to do for suborn power, pecuniary prestige, and political influence. Now that the book is fiinshed,
that is. Now that esthetic immortality itself is within our brass ring reach. If you know what I'm saying, chief.
Of course, you do. Because you're my goddamned literary agent, aren't you? A thoroughly un-talented/ego-stroking/gun-toting/ire-stoking double-dealing sycophant, bro. So it goes
without saying you're also a maladjusted malefactor, habitual prevaricator, and incorrigible goddamned parasite. A dark-prince of a douchebag, with bedbugs for blood, utterly capable
of perpetrating (and then promptly denying) any and all involvement in any and all crimes and misdemeanors (from petty treason to murder most foul) that you may or may not have
commited against the public's pleasure on behalf of your beloved clientele's personal impatience.
Everyone who knows you knows this about you, you know. And yet... Nobody you really care about really gives a sharing Care Bear shit in the woods about how you go
about skinning the cats and fleecing the sheep or gelding the top bananas in order to reach the top. So long as you're sending the clowns, bringing the noise, and endorsing the
checks. Before they bounce, that is. 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, but liberal, lickspittles are wont to do.
Or some shit like that. Because "some shit-like-that"is who you are and what you do, Gerry. Profusely, profanely, profoundly, and somewhat professionally. Am I
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've come for. Fussing over and hustling 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
Nevertheless, it's a beautiful thing. 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 ass from glory-holed temptation and slalom your
everlasting soul towards solemn redemption, holistic benevolence, and elegant relevance; you always and all too eagerly double down on all the decadent debauchery that was
only tacitly afoot prior to your steely arrival and still manage (somehow) to implement your bright idea of a de
riguer steal-of-a-deal/double-deal by raising Cain and rattling sabers and burning bridges with your sundry fashion faux pas and legendarily latent
sociopathy. Never failing 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 efforts and resources of the higher and mightier connoisseurs and cultural pilots of the zeitgeist
into funding and facilitating the likes of my own philistine but self-righteous causa sui.
Which, of course, is precisely why I want and need you so badly right about now. It's also why --dare I say it?-- I love you, too.
No. On second thought; I can't and won't say that, Gerry. But don't fret. As the great and terribly beautiful Meatloaf Himself once 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. Namely, gamely, and shamelessly promoting ANTAGONY (as essential textbook and Ten Commandment-esque avenged sevenfold
required reading) across all four corners of the contintental divide.
Are you ready to be great, Gerry? Are you with me or against me? Because, just so you know, here's what I've got in mind for our showstopping show:
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