Song Of The Day: Wherever You Are / David Mead
Word Of The Day: Rabiator / A Violent Man

“Wherever you are in the World, accidents will happen…” Like that line. I’m on a David Mead bender of late. He makes me …shiny on the inside.

Up at 5am again. Feel great! Several days into a new diet. Five servings of fresh fruit, lots of decaff tea (ginger, thank you!), vegetables, raw nuts (pistacchios, cashews, almonds). No meat (besides a bit of lamb now and then, just to keep the lambs in their place) to speak of, no cheese. No Diet Coke, No alcohol. The diet coke has not been hard to cut out at all, surpringly. I am several months without out, don’t miss it. Alcohol, our old en-fattening, bloating friend, I will miss you. What can I tell you, for a guy who chose the Middle Way, I’m not much for moderation. All things in moderation, especially moderation, that’s my motto.

Not that I’m worried about being some alchoholic type, but when I do drink I like to have, like, a six pack of Newcastles back to back. Can’t leave one un-opened, it’s just like splitting up a family of orphans. The main problem with alcholol is that it makes me fat and gross. I’m a very sensitive skinny guy. I really do not enjoy even a bit of extra weight. It just makes me feel slow and doughy, and that does not serve my duties as a gazelle in the World. I need to be able to dart and jet about, like the spry devil of the subtle Serengeti that vanity intended I be.

I’m writing a book, a couple books, and a screen play, OK, and the dictionary of IS, and I also write checks, ANYWAY, I’m writing a lot every day, as you know. For a while I just got into a rhythm of writing till 2pm, then drinking a six pack of Newcastle. It was easy, simple, and it added a certain tempo to the day (by the way, I think we need the word “hadded” to English, meaning “it had added”, a nice contraction to spice a sentence here and there). But alas, my friends, the effects of alchohol, they are so en-grossing. I mean that literally, they increase corpulence and torpor. It’s for shorpure. I gained about seven pounds in a week. Yikes! Granted, it was all in the crotch, and once I had that third teste removed it made an even six, but it’s still unacceptable.

Tangent: Idea for a gay porno. This dude -let’s call him Luke- unzips another guy’s pants. He’s about to go down on him, but when the pants open up, and the member emerges, it’s a fully erect Darth Vadar. What comes next, so to speak? The Darth Dick says “Luke, who’s your daddy?” Incest, or archetypal battle between good and evil? You decide.

The alcohol is something my new which-doctor (the doctor-which the medical mainstream marginalizes) sternly recommended I cut out of my diet completely. Why? Auto fucking Immune disorder. Oh, I have one alright. It took my immune system and automated its order in a most “dis” way. ‘S bull crap. But whatever. It’s called Alopecia, and yes, that’s why all my hair fell out, although you might not have noticed since I shaved my head, and OK, arms, and admittedly, LEGS, and yes, my baaaaallllllzzzz. My only net loss was eyebrows. True, that has freed up the cranial canvas a good deal, and I now decorate my head with a sundry of bindis, stickers, and paint splatters. I’m painting my studio in my spare time.

The alcohol I will miss, but not in a significant way. Went eight years without a drink at one period, and it was no big whoop. What will be a much, much bigger leap is the coffee.

I KNOW I SAID I WAS GOING TO QUIT COFFEE, YOU FUCKERS, YOU DON’T HAVE TO WAVE IT IN MY FACE LIKE A DARTH VADER DOLL!!!

I’m writing a book, I can’t get up at 5am every day and write for 8 hours with no Joe. C’mon, girlz. You think Jesus had that kind of will? He drank ALCOHOL. Yeah. It got him through those damn interminable dinner parties.

“Lord, what sayeth ye of the pharisees whose…”

“Hey, you guys, where’s Mary?”

“Lord, she… this is the last supper, and…”

“Get her. NOW. If I wanted to hang out with 12 dudes on my last night on the town, I’d be dining in Frisco.”

A few days into my diet, and the pounds are simply burning away! What’s my secret? The Darth Vadar Method, of course. First, a good deal of weight can be dropped in semen alone. Be careful where you drop it, or other people gain weight, and you’ll end up with a net gain. Second, drink a lot of water and tea and snit, and just pee out your excess body mass. Yes, it’s like the prisoners who dig tunnels with spoons, you can gradually rid yourself of flab by peeing ounce by ounce of it out. Counterintuitive, en-it? You have to ingest to divest on the quest for less.

If your urine is clean, you can sell it to rock musicians who require reliable samples at sporadical intervals. If it’s dirty, you can fill a squirt gun and offer an enemy a surprise spritzer! Be sure to plan your getaway!

Allow me to get superficial for a moment: I am planning to engage in a three or four day water fast soon. Seems a disingenous title, “fast”, when I’m certain it will pass like a presidential election. Nonetheless, this is supposedly critical for resetting the body clock. You see, as a subject of an auto immune disorder, my liver is in crisis. For real, ya’ll, the which-doctor told me so. He said years and years of Diet Coke (which I drank in great volumes), coffee (AGH), and alchohol conspired to undermine my liver. And now, it’s all fucked up. Gotta square the deal. I decided I love my liver, and want to help it. My which doctor gave me a book, it said: Fast. Like, quick, fast. The book (Fasting And Eating For Health, Joel Fuhrman, M.D.) is quite a read. Check it out, unless you’d rather die, in which-doctor-case you deserve to die. Just kidding! You deserve to be murdered.

As soon as I get my legs on the new diet for a while, and I have really gone a few weeks in pure goodness, I’m gonna do the fast. Then my darth vadar pee method will return my body to its natural scrawny, emaciated state.

It’s all a precursor to an ulterior agenda: Having my two floating ribs (numbers 11 and 12, and what the hell, 10 as well) surgically removed. I am going to LOOK so FUCKING awesome once my frame is not distorted into the freakishly rotund circus oddity that my Goddamn bottom ribs make it appear to be. Those bottom two ribs make me look simply grotesque! I am not my lower ribs. I need them OUT. Those bottom ribs make me look hideous and stand between me and my destiny as a corset model. Of course no corset model is complete without a fancy new set of posterior implants, butt-jutts, as I just discovered I call them. When I get those, all the other corset models will kiss my jutting butt, I’ll tell you what. Bust a nut, or keep it shut. Slut. Putt, putt. CUT!