I'm an entertainer with a life of his own.
Point being, I'm going to die, and none of you will forget me.
I went around the District of Columbia with Popacollar, after we had made arrangements with a transexual prostitute for an interview for our magazine, Sreracha. Unfortunately, like transexuals are prone to do, this one punked out on us. PXNKD. So, bummed, we went to a restaurant nearby after stopping by a McDonalds, and asking a nice 27-year-old what was hopping this time at night. So we tried to sneak into a club, which didn't work, and went to the near-by restaurant instead. There we were greeted by a wonderful group of gays who inhabited the restaurant. We chatted up our waiter, telling him about our horrible night, and he, sympathizing with us, told us how there was a transexual at the bar who was drunk of his her ass. What better than a transexual? A drunk transexual. We asked him to invite him her over, and we bought him her "Clams Casino". She talked a lot, then she left us--to pass out.
But the waiter didn't leave us.
He told us how he had done some interviews and work about sexuality when he lived in Palestine, or Jerusalem, Israel, or one of those countries over there. He thought it was interesting for us young, hip, fresh, guys to be doing work like this, and he wanted to know if we'd be interested in including him in some of our articles on sexuality. He seemed really excited.
We told him yes.
Yes, we would include his articles,
and we would,
we would if we really had a magazine.
But we don't,
so we won't,
and we'll never go back there again.