Pavlovian sex hour has come, gone and come again.
(against a background of backstage mayhem) While I'm normally really taken by the deer in headlights look, especially if it's accompanied by sex doll mouth, it's getting old. I know that most of my groupies are less interested in sex than conversation, but are unsure what to say so they take their clothes off. I'm a big fan of women taking their clothes off, but then I tend to direct party games instead of getting naked myself. They're a little naughty, but really about as sinful as the word "whoopie" and most of it could be televised in Europe after 9pm. If one could televise champagne enemas. I think you can. I once saw 4 celebrity colonic irrigations on UK terrestrial tv. It's good for you. But not for me.
I think a lot of this sort of entertainment is tempered by honest shock at what people will do if you just ask them to. The key to keeping things on an even keel is that my band members are even worse in terms of derring-do. I've seen my band members do terrible things naked -most of it accidental- more times than I'd like to admit and we will never, ever let Ginger forget The Banana Incident. The finest, most physically elaborate accident in the history of our band. Remind me to tell you about it sometime when I'm not feeling nauseous.
Oh yeah, the drunken spelling of freak that Frek used that got her that nickname? I keep meaning to tell her that if she uses small letters except for the E, it's the .. what do you call it... the phonetic pronounciation thing for freak. So it's still right. But I keep getting distracted.
(The camera shakes and the Doktor gets up to convince Pogo to take it out of that girl's pants and give it back.)
Where was I? I don't remember. I was going to tell you something important, though. Oh yeah. I am overmedicating. Too much of a bad thing. It's not like I haven't noticed. I went from years of clean-for-me living to a sort of fear and loathing on tour level of consumption. (You know, Beethoven died of consumption. How Edgar Allen Poetic.) This overmedication is evidenced by my ability to get down a flight of stairs in two steps and by my serious concentration over the correct and accepted spellings of both "Muammar Qaddafi" and "Tas-T-Freeze." Also by this entire monologue, which you should disregard immediately. Doktor, heal thyself.
(in a terrible English accent rivaling Juliet Landau's:) Jocularity obviously returned. This bodes ill for my family, though they'll probably appreciate the reprieve from King Leer's reign. Viv called me Loki last night. I thought she was calling me Low Key and was genuinely insulted for a good 45 minutes. I'd made a mental note to spank her genitals even harder next show and everything. But it's her accent, the filthy alabaster darling. I can't understand Americans.
(partially muffled, face in hands) (...) in the stoic way that drives me crazy. (...) cradling and then defending it all like (...) ...fucking asshole.
(clearly) John asked me if I was going to do something drastic. I told him I always do. I need to bid a farewell to the doppelganger that was nearly fully formed and streamline operations. It's going to hurt. But then I live for that shit. Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or cerebellum... (distracted)
(getting up) Where's my girl? Where's my pin up?
(Gymnastic level coiling of a giggling burlesque star on and around the Doktor. Cut for length.)
It took me 34 straight hours of obliteration and 15 minutes of tell me all about it to figure out how to cure my ills. Item one. Punch Gein. Item two. Get off the express elevator to rockstar death. Item three. Talk. Item four. Shut the fuck up. Item five. Shut the fuck up. Item six. Buy John a pony.
I made a veil of unspoken desires I found threaded in your hands. I draped you in it, posed you just so, got under the curtain and blinded you with the flash bulb. You're so used to it, you didn't blink. Neither one of us noticed the powder burns on your pretty cheek until further developments occurred. We reminded each other that the line was not til waking death do we part. What you require of me is just what I need to expel. No finer example of supply and demand.
Ira furor brevis est, fucker.
MM
PS: For what will probably be a limited time, you can askmrmanson